


Nocturne in Tempo Rubato

by Nikoshinigami



Series: The Circle of Fifths [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action, Angst, Drama, Humor, M/M, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:33:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nikoshinigami/pseuds/Nikoshinigami
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Pantomime". Nothing is ever simple for John Watson when it involves Sherlock Holmes. With the world doing its best to outdo even its only consulting detective, can the things left unsaid ever finally be spoken?</p><p>Edited by <a href="http://logicaldisaster.tumblr.com/">logicaldisaster</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Have I ever mentioned I am terrible with titles? I am. The worst. Obviously.
> 
> Reading "Pantomime" before this fic is recommended as it is a direct sequel. And reading "Time Signature" before that is also sort of necessary. Sorry <3
> 
> People who have been waiting for this series to get slashy, I'm pleased to bring you "Nocturne". For everyone wanting an uncomplicated bromance, I am sorry. This is what I've been building up to.

On day one no less than five nurses were trading favors for the chance to inspect the dressings of and sponge down the gunshot victim in recovery room 312. By day three, they were doing everything they could to pass the buck. It was amazing what consciousness and a restriction on morphine could do to make a man less attractive. Biting the blond one probably hadn't helped. John wasn't sure if he was pleased his friend was doing well enough to be a bother or if his childishness was simply tiresome. It didn't matter. John was going to visit him either way.

All five nurses gave him a fascinated look as he walked past their cluttered center station towards the somewhat infamous 312, small bouquet of lilies and white roses in one hand and a bag of takeaway in the other. They whispered to each other, sharing pitying winces and sometimes the odd curious, lingering gaze though black frames. John was used to it; getting more so each day as cameras flashed and reporters wagged their chins and foam-coated microphones. He saw ancient photos on the cover of one of the papers idly abandoned in a waiting room seat and made a point to walk faster. Celebrity was a nightmare he'd rather have left forever behind them along with the cringe-worthy headlines like " _Return of the Sleuth_ " or " _Hat-Man Returns_ " depending on the tide of their favor. John's inbox had never been fuller nor the blog counter been higher. Sherlock Holmes, absolved genius detective, back from the dead and at the center of a homicide investigation involving a young, dead primary school teacher laughably being hailed as a criminal spy for the fabled Moriarty syndicate.

Welcome home, John thought. The world was still a harsh, judgmental place waiting to crucify and vilify for pleasure, profit and appeal. He nodded towards the clustered nurses, closed mouth smile on his pursed lips. "Afternoon," he said, trying to be just another regular guy coming to visit another normal, everyday man.

They forced smiles and nodded back, a few muttered replies returned as they became suddenly much more busy with their clipboards and computers. 

John knocked once on the closed door to announce himself then let himself into the patient's room, the takeaway pulling on his wrist as he freed his hand to enter. There was still a somewhat alarming amount of balloons tied to the backs of chairs and the bed itself—Molly's contribution. Though several were waning, their gases expired to allow them to sag just slightly on their strings, the ten or so bobbing smiley faces still plainly requested the patient to ' _Get Well Soon!_ ' with all sincerity. Sherlock's deadpan scowl as he sat up in his bed was anything but amused by his accompaniments. Nothing like being mocked by helium sycophants.

"The funeral was today, was it?" he asked, his wince mostly disguised as he shifted in the bed, gown practically falling off his shoulders with the back knot untied.

John wasn't about to ask how he knew. Even he had a pretty good idea what was the main give-away.

"So, which one kicked you out?"

"The best friend. Rachel." John set the takeaway bag on the dining tray and moved about to the table where Scotland Yard's bouquet of half-dead yellow blooms were slowly rotting in their vase. He turned them over into a bin and set his own handful of white blossoms inside instead, filling it up with water from the tap and the packet of mystery dust. "Nearly ended up in a fist fight with a co-worker of hers too. Reporters everywhere. Priest said it'd be best to leave, so.... Didn't want to make a scene. Makes these yours now."

"You could go back later when no one else is there."

John nodded. "I'll buy new ones when I do. People don't normally walk around all day carrying flowers so these are just going to have to live here now." The humor in giving a recovering man flowers intended for the grave site of the woman who shot him wasn't lost on John. He just didn't find it funny. 

Sherlock looked remarkably well, all things considered. His posture and general appearance were reminiscent of lazy afternoons spent in his sleep clothes and dressing gown, slumped and sloth-like and removed entirely from the straight-backed, suit wearing persona of his more functional days. Well rested, force fed nutrients in IV form—even the pallor of his face was rosier, the shadows of his contours not deep enough to hide the warm hue. He almost seemed flushed. John put his hand to his forehead just to check as he moved the dining tray closer, pleased to watch Sherlock unpack the bag himself to peek at the various warm containers sloshing about within.

He eyed the fresh naan in its foil wrappings and the brown-yellow soup-like sauce under its plastic lid. "Vindaloo?" he asked. "In hospital?"

"Mine." John took his hand away from his head, finding him warm but not feverish, as he plucked his lunch from his hands, placing it aside on the top of the bedside table. "You've got the tika masala. You are getting full fat, cream based curries until you put on at least a stone." He pulled up a chair, the balloons bumping against themselves with hollow _thunks_. 

Sherlock tossed him the bread and a container of rice as he put his own food on the side, finally chucking the empty bag to the bin below. "Certainly better than that protein mess they keep bringing me," he said, popping open the lids. He poked at the curry with his fork, stabbing chunks of chicken with the prongs but letting it fall back into the sauce without ever taking a bite. He repeated the same pointless measure with the rice, his eyes darting from the containers to the still drip at his bedside. "As you're feeling inclined to disobey prescribed medical dietary practices, how strongly do you oppose adjusting my morphine dosage?"

John shook his head, spooning curry over his own rice. "Mycroft said no."

"It hurts, John."

"Yeah, well, your brother seems to think that until things are settled, you'll look for some new high to get off on and we really don't need you hooked on morphine. Certainly not with the whole bloody country trying to get in on the Sherlock Holmes story."

Sherlock breathed out an almost theatrical, whimpering sigh. His lashes fluttered as he looked down towards the IV nestled in his vein. He pushed the button to release more morphine only to find it still unresponsive, as they both knew it would be. It was his own fault for being overly eager with the button in the first place. Discomfort was far better than addiction, Mycroft had said. At least the older man seemed confident about there being a future to contend with. Sherlock breathed deeply, looking down at his friend with one of his more successful brands of manipulative frown. "John," he called deeply, hushed and slightly raw. "I'm in pain."

John sighed, not in the mood to be taken in. "Scale from one to ten?"

"Seven."

He stopped stirring his curry and paused for a moment, not daring to look up but rather inspecting his spoonful and its sauce/rice ratio. He put it down into its bowl and stood, overriding the controls on the beige machine until the drip released its static dosage into the awaiting tube. Sherlock's slightly surprised expression warmed over with delight. 

If Sherlock was being reasonable enough to say seven instead of twelve, there was no reason to doubt what made him desire more. John returned to his seat, attention fixed again on lunch. "Not a word to your brother about that."

"...Thank you, John." Sherlock closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips as he breathed in deep, exhaling on a satisfied sigh. 

He reclined for a moment, food untouched as he waited. Eventually he sat forward and dipped a torn piece of naan into the deep orange, fatty sauce of his meal, popping a mighty mouthful between his lips with the skill of a toddler. He repeated this several times, shoveling chicken in as well. There was sauce on his chin and lips which his tongue was quick to lick up, followed by a suck of his fingertips. He was needlessly noisy in his epicurean regard. The little belch at the end as he flopped back against the pillows was a benchmark John did well to surpass with his own, the vindaloo gone the way of the dodo. Sherlock chuckled; John suppressed a smirk. Sherlock brought out the worst of the best in him.

"Should have saved that for the reporters," he half joked, cleaning off Sherlock's tray though the containers were still half full. He'd eaten more than he'd thought he would. There was no reason to force upon his already agreeable performance. 

Sherlock was in a cooperative haze, mostly staring at the ceiling with a not altogether unintelligent look in his eyes. "I've got something else they can quote me on," he mused bitterly. He tapped his fingers restlessly against the covers. "How long until you finish that blog post?"

"Who said I was writing one?"

"Can't trust the media not to twist our words. The only report of events that's going to do justice to the truth is your own and your blog already has enough of a following and newly garnered interest I'd imagine to be a viable platform for getting across what happened." Sherlock moved his hands to his abdomen, fingertips steepled low across his belly. "Scotland Yard can corroborate with their investigative reports when news media tries to discredit your account and as the only eye witness there is little that can be said to the contrary."

John rubbed his face. He'd already written most of it. "I didn't see the important part, though, Sherlock. I didn't see Ma—," his voice caught and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I didn't see what happened. And besides the whole being alive again thing, _that's_ what they're going on about. Even the Yard'd like an explanation. And you're the only one who has one."

Sherlock nodded, eyes glancing towards the drip. "Perhaps this conversation would have been better held when I'm not.... fuzzy."

"Fuzzy makes men like you honest, Sherlock." John leaned forward, elbows on the bed. "You want me to write this, you have to tell me everything I missed. And I mean everything. Leave the editing to me."

Sherlock gave the morphine button a few more pokes just to see what he could get out of it then sighed and frowned at nothing in particular. He was stalling and John was vaguely aware that while it might be in consideration of his own feelings, it was more likely there were things John was not going to like the sound of. 

"It's not exactly a harrowing tale," the patient said, looking uncomfortable all the same. "She shot me, you shot her, and Moran shot you—most thankfully in that bulletproof vest my brother was kind enough to grant you. While you lay unmoving, Mary crawled to you, loudly calling out to you. Any idiot could tell you were breathing and that there was no blood pooling on the concrete. At first Moran took aim at me to finish me off but it seems he changed his mind. I only heard the shot that ended Mary's life. At first I wasn't sure what had happened but it would seem that she was compromised as an informant. She let her emotions get the better or her by putting you ahead of the game. It should have been her job to finish me off, not Moran's, and yet she abandoned her weapon to try to crawl to you."

John hung his head slightly, just enough to keep his face mostly unseen during the moment he needed to collect himself. His chin trembled with the effort not to cry. He wasn't going to do it, though. Such things were private affairs. 

"I was in no condition to escape so it seemed Moran found it safe to come down from his perch and face me himself once more. He welcomed me home. Congratulated me on a job well done. Said Jim would have loved this. Most fun he'd had since the man died. Wasn't ready to end it so soon after all." The staccato of his sentences made each one sound like an afterthought, a piece forgotten and only just remembered. Sherlock sighed quietly, face just slightly contorted from its passive, creaseless frown. "If James Moriarty was a spider, Sebastian Moran is a parasite; he needs the life of someone else to give his own meaning. Apparently I'm entertaining enough to qualify. Guess that makes me Mr. Sex now."

"Alright, I'm starting to actually hear the morphine. You think you can finish this story without getting… loopy?"

Sherlock's eyes followed the bounce of the balloons, watching them dance with their merry smiles bobbing on their strings. "If I bore him, we die, John. If I become a problem for business, we die. There is a very narrow margin where I am interesting and worth playing with and where we are both dead."

"Both?" John asked.

Sherlock's smile faded, eyes far too bare for a moment for John to meet. He was truly childlike without his inhibitions; one, large child who never learned to share or to keep nasty thoughts to himself rather than say the first thing that popped into his head. Innocent didn't mean guiltless, it meant too ignorant to know better. If Sherlock was anything, it was spectacularly ignorant of most of life's finer things. His was the innocent look of a boy pulling the wings off butterflies without any concept of life or death, mesmerized only by the colored scales on his fingertips. Sherlock breathed deep, eyes batting closed, the fingers on his right hand spreading out towards his friend. "I am sorry, John. I believe no matter what strides we take, I am going to be the death of you." 

John nodded, his thoughts and fears confirmed. He took Sherlock's hand in his own, the long, elegant fingers curling against his palm. "If I'm lucky," he said, rubbing at his friend's cold digits. "And not to change the subject but you have the worst circulation." He reached across and pulled his other hand off his belly, wrapping his own hands about both of Sherlock's to rub and warm and hold. "But yeah. We're... in this together. Best friends through thick and thin and... well, you've both of those covered. Never met a man more thick-headed than you."

"When you're scared or uncomfortable you try to make light of things. Make a joke. You divert to try and get past the initial shock which you then suppress and release later when you're alone."

John's hands spasmed tighter in their grip. "Shut up, Sherlock," he managed without the sting of defense. 

Sherlock obeyed, lids heavy with the promise of dreams. He stared at their hands through his lashes, the strong, calloused, stumpy grip of a soldier encasing the larger, half-balled fists of a scientist. He moved his thumb to the outside of John's hand, gently pinning their palms to stay as they were. 

John swallowed, pursing his lips as he sat perfectly still, ceasing in the gentle rubbing of his hands as he listened while Sherlock's breath became even with the tell-tale sighs of sleep. He hated the way the cold fingers in the heart of his own hands went slack and heavy. Too much like death. Too much like a hand he'd grasped at years before. The shock of it never truly fades. John resumed the warm squeezes and gentle massage of the soft, scarred pads of his hands, one heart warming two. It was better than being idle. It was kinder than leaving the moment he shut his eyes. It gave John time and a purpose for at least a few more minutes while his mind left him to his task and mercifully shut down.

The door opened without a knock. John stiffened but won against the urge to quickly release Sherlock's hands in a panic and instead gently put them to rest back against the covers. It looked less guilty. Mycroft only smiled when he saw him there, no curious look or knowing smirk which he usually shared when teasing or being a dick. John nodded slightly to him, standing up from his seat. Mycroft held a folded newspaper in one hand, his umbrella hanging from the crook of his elbow.

"I thought you had a funeral today."

"Did. They let me out early."

Mycroft caught a glance at the fresh white flowers and nodded, still managing to withhold his customary grin of self-congratulation. "I see." His eyes followed down Sherlock's prone body from head to toe, a wealth of information at the Holmes's disposal. He shook his head, at last a small twinge of amusement catching in the corner of his lips. "Guess I can't begrudge your giving in to him now and then but let's not make a habit of it. He's only as strong as his boredom allows."

"Yes, well, I'm his doctor. I've got this covered." One of the balloons gently bounced its smiling face off John's head as he walked around the bed, offering the now vacant seat to his friend's brother.

"Can't stay long," Mycroft said, holding out the paper as the doctor drew closer. "Just stopped by to show him this. Thought it might interest him." 

It was a tabloid, same as many John had already seen. The bold title read " _Boffin Holmes Baffles Britain_ " with the customary hat picture centered large across the front page and a smaller few from different photo-ops, different cases scattered around for color. John smirked, amazed at how fickle the world could be.

"Should have waited for the big news. Could have run with 'Boffin Bond' for some serious alliteration." He put the paper down at Sherlock's feet, taking a deep breath. "So, how much of a prat am I going to look when I publish that the British Government helped Sherlock go into hiding by employing him as a secret agent? Anyone going to back that up in any way or am I supposed to cross my fingers and hope people just accept that for face value? Because the last thing we need is people thinking I'm a liar if I'm the only person capable of speaking out on this right now."

Mycroft's face said it all. He mused his lips, brows shifting down over his eyes like weights. There was a long, drawn out breath, then "John—"

"Hold on. Let me tell you what I want to hear first." There was only so much bullshit he could take from the world with every sign screaming that they'd all been here before. "I want to hear that you're going to have your best PR representative not only verify these facts to the press but supply testimony on the declassified accomplishment Sherlock made as Sigerson. I want to hear that you're going to put the best goddamn spin on events that your people can do to make sure the public realizes Sherlock is not a murderer. I want to hear a continuing reiteration that Sherlock was acquitted and that James Moriarty was real. That's what I want; that's what he and I really need from you right now. How much of that can I expect to actually happen?"

Mycroft's long suffering sigh and aside gaze were everything John didn't want to see. "Even if I were to give you all that, deserved as it may be, you and Sherlock have at best five years left to live while this government will continue on after, supported by her secrets and public ignorance." He looked back at him, a ' _but_ ' hanging in the air between them on a string of hope much lighter than the balloons. "We will hold firm on our stance that James Moriarty did exist and that Sherlock is no criminal. We will not deny we helped Sherlock in his gap years but we will neither confirm nor deny how. And I will have my best men hunting for Sebastian Moran until he is dead either to protect or to avenge you both. That is the best I can offer."

It was more than he had hoped for even if it was far less than he felt they deserved. "If your people are going to be vague, I'll keep to that story too." John picked the paper back up and walked it to the side table. Sherlock probably would get a kick out of it. He scanned the article, glancing past a few theories, eyes tripping over his own name here and there. 

"I'm glad my brother's better half is a reasonable man."

"He and I, we're not... You know we're not."

"Oh, I know. Wishful thinking, perhaps."

"Wishful thinking?" John waved the paper at him before plopping it down on the table beside Sherlock's leftovers. "Yeah, because the press really needs that kind of help right now."

"I couldn't care less what the press needs." His eyes lingered on the curry cartons, smile warming slightly from the ice-cold, calculating grin that seemed to feign humanity on most days. "When he leaves here, am I to understand he will be welcome back on Baker Street?"

John smirked, unable to help himself from falling into snark. "You see the evidence. Why don't you make a deduction?"

"Still angry?"

"At a lot of things right now," John admitted. Anger was never an emotion he shirked from sharing. 

"But not at him."

"No."  
"Why?"

Why indeed. John took a deep breath, his mind weighing the honest answer against the convenient one. "Because it's not his fault. He's only responsible for the choices he's made and it's not his fault people are either scared or attracted to his brilliance." In the end, he wasn't sure which option he picked. Or if there was a difference. "And... because if I ever started blaming him, I'd never be able to stop."

Mycroft shrugged his brows, accepting it for whatever it was.

The thin hospital gown was still awkwardly draped over Sherlock's collar from the untied strings that should have pulled it across his shoulders. John pulled the thin cloth up like the dog-eared flap of a page and eased it back over his skin, setting the covers right as well as he prepared to leave with much work to be done; flowers to buy, graves to whisper to and words to write.

"If he wakes up while you're here, tell him I'll be back for dinner and to text me if he wants something other than döner kebab with chips."

"Is there anything _healthy_ on this diet you've got him on?" the man asked, perhaps a bit of jealousy sneaking into the sour tone.

John smirked with stony lips, tapping a balloon to purposefully dance in circles near Mycroft's head with its mocking smile and cheer. "Afternoon, Mycroft," he said, stepping around him to the door and out into the quiet hall of watchful stares and guarded curiosity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long.

The onyx stone in his palm was cold and sharp, baring the broken engravings of a partial S and H from the ruins of the well-trod grave site. There was no body there as the world now knew, nothing sacred to desecrate. The unlikely Christ figure had risen again and as proof now the stone that marked his grave was cracked, all the pretenses of death abandoned with a heavy heave of something blunt and unyielding. It wasn't someone's idea of a tasteful homage or beautiful metaphor for the return of something wonderful, though. It was vandalism. Hate and misunderstanding had turned the polished black cenotaph into large chunks of rubble left crumbled on the lawn. John wondered vaguely if anyone had seen the person responsible. He wondered if anyone who had seen had thought the act unjustified or if they had looked on with a proud, understanding nod. At Mary's grave John laid a small handful of flowers amongst the large crowds of standing arrangements, wreaths and bouquets. At Sherlock's he took a piece of stone that had once borne his name. The cab ride was quiet and long.

Seated at home in his chair, John's thumb traced the broken engraving. It would look nice along the mantelpiece next to the ashtray from Buckingham Palace; another souvenir. There was so much stuff. Mrs. Hudson had been a saint for all her help in picking up the throws and pillows and extra things that Mary had stored in his home. It was much easier to put her in a box and store her away than it had even been for Sherlock's things. Mary was only human, whereas Sherlock was a force of nature. John could interact with and touch the things that Mary had left; what Sherlock had left had touched him. John felt he liked the way the flat looked without the more feminine touches. It didn't hurt to see the couch bear or the chair that had always belonged to his best friend. His flat in all its mismatched, unbalanced, eclectic furnishings was part of what John knew as home and he hadn't been satisfied until he could walk through the room with his eyes closed and feel the spaces where Sherlock would inhabit like movable objects. He hated in some ways how the man's presence was still something instinctive rather than remembered. Sherlock had gotten deep under his skin. With a sigh of half defeat, thumb resting in the curve of the engraved S, John had to admit he'd more than let him do so. He felt as much whole as he did empty.

The fire was nice. Mrs. Hudson was home, then. Not their housekeeper but always making sure they were well taken care of. There had been dusting done and, though he hadn't checked, John was half certain there would be food stocked in their fridge beyond which he had bought himself. He wanted to believe it was simply special preparation for Sherlock's homecoming. It sounded much better than round two of taking care of a wounded soldier. She needn't worry. He was fine. Mary had been working for Moriarty, she was aligned with the man who had threatened John's life twice and taken from him three years of happiness. She'd met him because of some order handed down from which all else was based on. Everything they had was built on a foundation of lies. No, he was okay. No tears at the grave, no long speech towards goodbye. Life went on, as it always did, as it was wont to do. 

John looked at the clock, sighing restlessly at the hands which spread out in semaphore. Still hours till dinner and a listless companion. He'd need to think of something to help take Sherlock's mind off boredom and discomfort; a game, a book of puzzles, maybe give him a go with Guess Who. Sherlock would eat and sleep and obey so long as there was little else to do. Lestrade was already eager to consult the detective, however. John could see it in his chin the way it dimpled in thought as he pulled in his bottom lip. There was no doubt Sherlock was up to it but his body needed so much more of the peaceful times of sloth and gluttony. Half a carton of curry was hardly gluttonous for anyone other than Sherlock but it made such a difference when healing to be rested and fed. Not that Sherlock would care beyond the scope of how his transport got his mind to where it needed to go. There was a whole conversation left to be had in that. John switched off to something else, standing with the stone in his hand, destined for the mantle, to try and save such thoughts for a different day. 

He stood at the mantle and placed the broken engraving on top of a book, facing the lettering out. It fell at an odd height compared to the skull, which John lifted to place on top of a disused copy of _Moby Dick_. He almost missed the little black box that waited underneath as he shifted things with both hands full; a small, square, black, hinged jewelry box. His eyes tripped and fell over it, his breath suddenly caught in his chest with his heart in his throat. He put the book down and hesitantly wrapped his trembling fingers around the soft, fuzzy case. The sob surprised him and sent the skull skittering to the floor as his hand fell hard over his own lips. He felt ill. His stomach was cold and sour making the taste of his own tears almost sweet in comparison. He breathed deep, the breath shuddering over his tongue as it failed to swallow. No rational thought could stop the sudden sweep of feeling. She had been working for Moriarty's men from the very beginning and he had loved her. And she had loved him.

His legs felt weak. John leaned heavy against the mantle, biting hard at his hand to stall the embarrassingly raw, tortured whimpers that ripped through him. He was shaking, face to the books and carved wood warmed by the fire with a white-knuckle grip digging into his palms. It hurt. It _hurt_ and no amount of medication was going to settle the pain while it healed. No food or rest would cure it. It was a life changing disease transmitted from person to person by the heart and twice now he had been stricken with it, as close to vomiting as he was to screaming. He could feel the stinging rake of bile in his throat as his whole body convulsed in keening. He wasn't sure he could move. He'd just clean it up if he couldn't settle himself. The way his breath continued to hitch and buckle against his throat and the pitch of his nearly contained wailing made it seem quite likely. His body wouldn't listen, his entire self suddenly just transport for everything in him that was broken and drowning in the tears he hadn't shed.

He'd rather a hundred gunshot wounds to another moment in mourning. 

So engrossed in his own convulsions and bawl was he that he did not hear the creak on the steps. It was far too late to wrangle his grief into something less naked when soft footsteps crossed through the open door into the room. "Oh, John...," Mrs. Hudson sighed, not the first time she'd found him doubled over in bereavement but that fact neither proud nor comforting.

John pressed his palms to his eyes, the heels of his hands forced to push back everything that was spilling over. "I'm okay; it's fine. Just..." he forced a smile, the expression lacking in all but pain. He held out the ring box now spotted in tears. "You want a ring? I don't think it's my size."

Mrs. Hudson frowned, giving the back of John's chair a pat. "Have a seat, dear. I'll make you a nice hot cup of tea." She didn't wait for him to sit but went straight into the kitchen to set the kettle on. John was thankful. He wasn't sure how sturdy he could walk with all his feeling trapped in his head. His feet felt numb and brick-like at the end of thick, stalk legs like rubber bands. He tumbled as much as walked his way back to his chair, flopping into it bonelessly with his treasure clutched in his hand. 

Just like old times. 

So very tired of misery.

John stared at the ceiling, concentrating on air. He was going to make himself sick if he didn't calm down and breathe. It was hard to be rational and intelligent when everything else said ' _fuck it_ '. This was why he hated crying. Laughter was really the only expression of emotion he didn't mind taking over and failing to stop.

"Bless. Running around with those reporters around, watching over Sherlock, dashing here and there. No wonder you're in this state. Looking after everything without a soul to look after you."

"Please," John squeaked, ashamed of the sound. He left it that for a moment. Mrs. Hudson understood well enough. He gave himself the space of several more even breaths before speaking again. "Look, I'll... I'll go see my therapist if it gets too much but I'm fi—.. I'm fine," he assured her.

Mrs. Hudson looked over, smiling gently with years of experience behind her eyes. "I know you are, dear. We all are." 

It was never as comforting as people thought it was to know other people could feel this way. 

John slowly felt his pulse fall even with his breath, his clammy skin no longer pulled too tight across his face. His head hurt from the pressure. His skin felt raw along his cheeks.

"How was Sherlock today?" she asked from the kitchen, the clink of cups punctuating her call.

"He's fine. Bored. Going to be a lot of trouble for them until he's finally discharged. Can't even dope him into complacency." John welcomed the change in conversation. He and Mrs. Hudson were old hats at working around each other's blues. She liked to be comforted; John liked to be left alone. "Not going to help his public image to have him lashing out at the medical staff. Not sure what else to do for him, though."

Mrs. Hudson walked in with a cup and saucer, passing them off into John's somewhat shaky hands. He nodded to her, a small word of thanks shared as he brought it close to him.

"Why don't you stay here tomorrow? Get some rest. Sherlock will be fine without the company this once."

John somehow doubted that. He sipped his tea, warmed by it where crying had left him cold. "It's not an imposition. I like seeing him."

"I'm sure you do, dear." Mrs. Hudson took a seat in Sherlock's chair, her own cup now in hand. The ruffles of her burgundy blouse fluttered as she shifted to get comfortable around her hip. She winced just slightly. "Look at you, though. You haven't had a moment's rest. And that's even with having taken time off from work and all."

John pursed his lips, clearing his throat as he looked down at his tea. "Not… time off. Just... off."

"Oh, _John_. Really? Oh, but things were going so well!"

"Yeah. Well... doctor on staff caught up in a murder investigation and appearing on the front page of half the local newspapers and even some of the national... Just say they felt it wasn't in the surgery's best interest to be associated with me right now." John tried to hide the bitterness in his voice. He'd never lied, never said he was anyone but himself. Suddenly, though, he was _that_ John Watson. Years of ass-kissing and networking destroyed by one revelation. He hated to admit Mycroft had been right. No hint of exaggeration, John had lost everything the night he got inside that car—everything but what he already had lost, now returned. 

And part of him was not just happy to be back to the way things had been but joyful. The same heart that mourned one life was exuberant with the return of another. It hurt his head to be conflicted. Everything hurt.

"I am sorry about the job. They don't know what they're losing. Don't you worry about the rent for now. Mycroft's already offered to pay the full amount until Sherlock is back in stride."

He shook his head. "No, I'll find a job."

"You have a job. You're Sherlock's assistant." Mrs. Hudson's raised pinky waved slightly with her smile, as though connected by a thin wire. "And there's the blog. And you being his primary physician. How much more can one man do?"

John wasn't sure if she was trying to make him feel better or simply placating him. Somehow her words sounded uncannily like many doors slamming shut.

+++

John's mobile chirped from his nightstand beside an alarm clock proudly boasting 3:17 A.M. He glared at the dull lights in their almost random patterns, his eyes unadjusted to even their dim reading. Very few good things happened before eight in the morning, lesser good the further back towards midnight one went. His mind went to Harry first and whether or not he could get bail money second. With drunk-like efficiency he fumbled for his phone, turning it over to check his new message.

_Get on. –SH_

He groaned, holding the phone to his face as though it could transmit his desire for sleep and bloody revenge. Three in the morning— _three in the morning!_ —and Sherlock was already making demands. It was either the perfect ending to an already stress-filled day or the early reprisal of another. He rather liked to imagine the closer quarters equivalent of Sherlock standing outside his door, beating on it furiously, if only because it gave him the opportunity to imagine himself throwing the door open with a pillow ready to smash into the inconsiderate arse's face. Maybe something harder than a pillow. Maybe a fist. In both the real and imagined scenario, he was going to end up complying anyway.

John sat up, feeling tired and nearly sick to his stomach. He dragged himself out of bed and back out to the living room, pulling the laptop off its table perch without the sense to care as he yanked the cord out of the wall and dragged it back towards his room. He fumbled with the outlet as the laptop booted, muttering to himself for motivation. So tired. The mobile chirped again but John ignored it, knowing instinctively that it foretold of little more than his friend's impatience. He pulled up the application and logged in, seeing all sensible people were no longer connected and longing to be among them. Instantly he received Sherlock's request and accepted it. With little further delay the screen grew large and full of the darkened hospital room and Sherlock's disheveled form in bored repose.

He didn't have to be a doctor to see that something was wrong. Sherlock's curls were sticking to his forehead on the damp of his sweat, his eyes narrow, the skin between them pinched across the bridge of his nose. He looked ashen and cold despite the sweat, though John told himself it was from the light cast by the screen of his laptop in the darkness and not his true pallor.

Sherlock smiled just slightly at seeing John's face and fell back against his pillow. "Good morning, John."

"It's not morning till the sun comes up," John corrected, setting the laptop down on the bed so he could rest against his pillow as well. "You do know what time it is, yes?"

"To the second, I can assure you." He licked his lips, eyes glossy. He looked off to the left—his right—towards an out-of-frame something that held his rapt attention. "John, I need the override code for the morphine. I'd figure it out myself but my mind can't focus right now."

John shook his head, effectively nuzzling his pillow. "You know I can't give you that. I should know better not to mess with it where you can see me, even. Try thinking about something else."

"Can't. I can't even sleep. I'm bored out of my mind and all I can think about is how much this hurts."

"Call a nurse, then. Don't call me; I can't do anything."

"I have been. At decreasing intervals since you left this evening. I'm down to hitting the call button every two and a half minutes. I'm beginning to think they've disconnected it." Sherlock punctuated this with a stab at the call button which, after a few minutes' pause, resulted in nothing. He gave the camera on his laptop a deadpan look of discontent as his temples pulsed from a set jaw.

Regardless of his behavior, John didn't like to see any patient ignored. At three in the morning, he could think of very few reasons why there wasn't at least one attendant able to pop in and see what was the matter. John pulled his phone towards him and called the hospital's main line, being transferred to Sherlock's floor by a nice young woman with a slight stutter. The answer was almost immediate. So much for excuses. "Hello, yes, this is Dr. John Watson, I was in there this evening to see a patient you have there: Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He's called me because no one at the nurse's station is answering his call button. He's in a lot of pain and I think someone should go in and give him a bit more for the night." John kept his eyes on Sherlock, watching the hopeful twitches of his eyes as he stared with inhuman interest at the one-sided call going on between several miles away and just a few feet out his door.

The woman on the other end sounded tired with little effort put forward to mask her exasperation. There was a hesitation of button taps at a keyboard. "Sorry, I have here that his doctor is a Dr. Kimberly. Who did you say you were?"

"I'm his friend." John gave Sherlock the benefit of a slight roll to his eyes, a gesture meant to convey the tedium of the process. "Look, I know his brother's put in some stipulations about addiction prevention but you know how it goes. He's a little drug-resistant so what you probably think is enough isn't really doing enough good for him."

"Sorry, only his doctor and close family can make patient decision."

"Well I'm closer to him than his family and I know him better than I know medicine and that's saying something because I'm a damn good doctor." Not that he expected her to be impressed. John propped his head up off the pillow onto his fist, unable to sound stern and important enough with his cheek cushioned on faux down and cotton. "He's drug-resistant and the levels you have him at aren't cutting it. This is the third time today he's complained to me. Can you please just put me in contact with someone who can make a decision here; his doctor preferably."

Another static hesitation. "Sorry, we can't give that information out."

John pinched at the bridge of his nose, not wanting to look at the screen though he could imagine his friend's expression as he deduced the type of news he was hearing. "So he's supposed to just deal with it until tomorrow morning when I go in there? No one is going to give him anything?" 

He heard the bang twice—once through the computer and almost simultaneously through the phone. He opened his eyes in time to see the follow through of Sherlock's throw, though he could only guess what it had been which had made the unlucky trip across the room. His face highlighted the additional discomfort the motion had caused.

" _Jesus_ ," the nurse half whispered in surprise. "Yes, I'm afraid so. I'm sorry, I have to attend to something."

"Hold on, I've got it. Sherlock," John tipped the phone from his lips, giving his friend an unamused look and raised eyebrow frown. "Don't throw things at the door. You've already pissed off just about everyone there and it's not going to help things." Sherlock's petulant stare failed to put him in his place. John gave him one last warning look before setting his mobile once again close to his face. "Right, sorry. Look, can you please jot down that I want to see his doctor first thing in the morning or ask him to call me? I'm listed in his file as an emergency contact. I'll do what I can to keep his mind off it for tonight."

"Are you—How are—," she seemed confused at his earlier admonishments but not enough so ask. "Okay," she said with a long suffering sigh. "I'll let Dr. Kimberly know your concerns. If you could just have him lay off the call button unless it's an emergency?"

"If that means you'll stop ignoring it, yes. Deal." 

"We're not..," she faltered for a moment then settled again for a sigh. "We'll see you in the morning, Dr. Watson."

"Yes, you will. Thank you." While hardly the response he wanted, it was better than nothing. John hung up and stretched over the laptop to put the phone back on the nightstand. His friend's angry face was turned away from the camera, looking off towards the morphine drip with the fixed attention of a cat. It was of some small consolation to not have to break the news so much as reiterate it. "Okay, Sherlock. No more call button and sorry but no morphine until I get in tomorrow."

"You know the code, John. If you told me I could fix it myself."

"I can't give you the override, Sherlock."

"Hell, you're just as bad as he is! _I'm not an addict_!" His voice cracked just slightly, making the angry outburst far less intimidating. His arms rose up over his head, a wall of triceps and armpits blocking out his face as he awkwardly hugged his own head.

John swallowed, fighting the impulsiveness that said to trust him. With his life, he trusted him implicitly. With this... No. "Mycroft's gotten me permission to visit anytime between nine and nine and I promise you I'll be standing at the kiosk at 8:30 in the morning waiting to get this all sorted."

"And what about now?"

"Now, ideally, you go to sleep."  
"I can't sleep, John."

"Just stop fixating on it. Think about something else."

"I _can't_. Don't you think I've been _trying_?" There was pain even in his voice and John had to purse his lips hard, teeth stamping them together, to keep his heart from blurting out what his head knew to keep secret. Sherlock was a master manipulator with the ability to cry on command. John didn't doubt his sincerity but entertaining the idea of crocodile tears helped keep him cool and steady. Sherlock pulled at his hair, breath suddenly shallow as tangible anxiety wound around him. "God, it's all I can _think_ about! Everything in my head keeps screaming to do something about it and I _can't_ because it's like white-noise running through my mind as a constant distraction from anything that actually matters!"

John nodded slowly, readjusting the laptop on the bed as his fingers slid across the touch pad. "I'll do a share screen and we can watch a movie together, how about that?"

"How about you break into this hospital and give me some morphine. Or, easier still, _tell me the override_!" He dropped his arms finally, face redder than before and eyes practically brimming with the moisture of tears. It hurt but it wasn't hurting him. It was an important distinction to John as he took two deep breaths, unwilling to look away from Sherlock's nearly honest eyes. Sherlock would be fine. John had been there, exactly where he was only thousands of miles away. Unhappy times, those, but nothing more than an inconvenient memory. 

"If you're going to act like a child, I'm going to sing you to sleep like one and none of us want that," he teased, trying to bring him around.

Sherlock scoffed, eyes rolling, a better sign but still halfway up the grumpy tree. "No, please, go right ahead. Maybe I'll laugh myself into a coma."

"Sherlock, it's late. Early. _It's three in the morning_. I want to help but there is only so much I can do."

Sherlock rolled his head back, neck stretched as he looked towards the ceiling. He still hadn't rage quit their conversation, allowing the program to continue to stream his miserable performance across to the flat they both had shared, but his hope was dying and John was certain he'd share his despair in much the same candor. John wasn't sure he needed to remind him of why things were the way they were or that it was just as hard for John to deny him as it was for Sherlock to be refused by him. It wasn't often he had to put his foot down. Generally Sherlock, in his own strange way, seemed to know best. But not this time.

He wasn't exactly sure what prompted it. The quiet had stretched out too long, perhaps. He had watched Sherlock swallow, seen him hide his upturned face behind his hands, heard his breath shake through his nose as he watched his chest expand with every hitched inhale. One moment it was quiet, the next his lips were moving, his voice uncertain and rather hushed but no longer carrying across words of sympathy but lyrics. He hadn't picked any one song for any particular reason. "In My Life" by the Beatles just sort of popped into his head and motivated his mouth to move with the calming melody of ageless pop.

Sherlock stilled, his breath quieter or maybe even held as he caught on to the sound through his laptop speakers. After a moment, not but a few lines into the first verse, his lips spread into a smile with a hushed chuckle parting them. He turned his face back to the screen, an almost embarrassed expression of amusement lighting it with cheer. "Are you actually doing this?"

"You laughed at me. I had to defend my honor. I can carry a tune."

"Noted." Sherlock rolled his shoulders, sinking deeper into his pillow as he continued to smile, the occasional breathy laugh escaping him as he shook his head, pleasantly surprised by the randomness. "Well, don't stop on my account. Please continue."

John scoffed, rolling over onto his belly in his own bed, adjusting the screen to angle down further to keep Sherlock's face in the right rendering beside him and himself still in line with the camera. "No." 

"Please?"

"Are you serious?"

Sherlock shrugged, his hands resting on top of the blankets and folded over his stomach. "It's something to focus on that isn't pain," he said, looking less frustrated already with the slight reset the unpredictable had lent him.

John tapped his fingers against the laptop's flat surface where one's wrists floated. "I can pull us up some music," he offered.

"No. I... like that it's you."

John rolled his face into his pillow, trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the request though the feeling was much closer to awkward than embarrassment. He gave Sherlock an incredulous smirk, finding his earnest return just as bewildering. "I expect you to close your eyes and try to sleep if you're seriously requesting a lullaby."

To his surprise, Sherlock closed his eyes as prompted, blankets already pulled up to his chest. He sighed as he found his final posture, a signal he was ready for the song to resume.

"I can't believe...," John didn't bother. It was Sherlock—everything fell into that category. "Right. Well, you're stuck with Beatles songs but I'll resist the temptation to throw in a 'Hard Day's Night'."

Sherlock chuckled, eyes still closed as the short laugh left a smile on his face. "Thank you, John. I'll see you in the morning."

"Yeah, you will." John cleared his throat, trying to think of it all as just another joke, another side gag that they would laugh about later. They would anyway. It still felt incredibly awkward, even with Sherlock's eyes closed. He knew not to wait too long least Sherlock peek and guilt him with his hesitancy. John had only ever really sang love songs to his girlfriends, though. He'd stopped singing in the shower in the military. He only sometimes hummed or whistled. It felt ridiculous to pull up random songs from memory with any expectations to be appreciated for the effort of providing a soothing melody. 

But it seemed to help. And tired as he was, it was a simple request at least and one with which he could absolutely give in to without failing him as a friend. And he knew the songs well. He didn't even really have to think about the words as they left him, his own eyes half-lidded and weighed down by exhaustion. He continued on automatic, watching Sherlock breathe as he searched for unfeeling unconsciousness. "But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you, and these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new, though I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before, I know I'll often stop and think about them. In my life, I...." John hesitated over the line, licking his lips in the pause. "I... forget the rest," he lied.

"Mm. S'fine. Next."

John chuckled, feeling like a worn-out jukebox. He searched his mind for something that wasn't a love song, finding his selection much smaller than he had thought when looking for those which were peaceful and practical for a lullaby. He settled for "Across the Universe", laughing when it was made clear he'd started too high and jumped an octave lower mid chorus. Sherlock's laugh was subdued, his smile more clear on the tilted screen as sleep began to win. John finished with "Hey Jude", continuing on a bit even after he felt sure the other man was asleep. Waking him would have been a crime.

The task-bar warned of four o'clock approaching, the minutes ticking by towards the early dawn. Still plenty of time to sleep before visiting hours. Not that the hospital could keep them from visiting as much as they liked. John let his hand rest on the touch-pad, considering what to do now. Signing off would make a disconnect sound so that was effectively a non-option. All things considered, John was fine sleeping next to a computer. He put his mic on mute and picked the laptop up, turning it on its side against the mattress to keep the air vents unrestricted. Sherlock's face was horizontal on the bed at that angle, as though he was there as much in body as in mind. It was strange but not unwanted. John pulled the blanket up under his chin, rolling over to face away from the screen and the sleeping man shown on it.

"G'night, Sherlock," he whispered; mute, sleep and distance making it all the more pointless than each fact alone. He smiled all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Fanart](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/19859743536/lullaby-inspired-by-nikos-engaging) by [khorazir](http://khorazir.tumblr.com)!  
> [Fanart](http://indyfalcon.tumblr.com/post/36568436789/john-rolled-his-face-into-his-pillow-trying-not) by [indyfalcon](http://indyfalcon.tumblr.com)!


	3. Chapter 3

John hated reporters; hated them all but especially the tabloids. How they had found out about Sherlock's release was anyone's guess but hardly took a deductive leap. The hospital staff were not exactly above reproach. At least one paper had run with a story on the 'criminal' detective and his 'violent temper' to which no amount of calls and corrections could erase. Sherlock had never struck anyone in anger in all the days John had known him—not unless they were deserving and the situation demanding. It was beyond ridiculous. Sherlock had gone from extravagant fraud to exonerated deceased to resurrected murderer with Mary's face and grieving friends making several headlines of their own. Facts were fiction as far as the media cared. John's blog was referenced only by the larger papers. "The Case of the Lonely Bachelor" had become the most viewed blog entry to date, bandwidth suffering a tremendous burden even days after he'd updated the long abandoned experiment. Mycroft assuredly had some hand in making sure the website stayed up and available. The world was caught in a Sherlock fever-dream and John could only hope eventually it would snap awake and see reality for what it was. At least Sebastian Moran was sure to be entertained.

John walked beside the petite nurse who held the handles to the wheelchair, Sherlock antsy and annoyed to be pushed along towards the exit like some invalid. He was, however, still completely infirm. Having a stay-at-home medical doctor and a brother who could bend rules as easily as most people seemed to bend the truth had gotten him early release but it hardly gave him a full bill of health. Another two weeks of bed rest was what Dr. Watson had prescribed and for all Sherlock's insolence, he was going to enforce it. The nurses were only too glad to be relieved of the impossible man. Sherlock's glee was known to John alone, perhaps, in his knowledge of what made the man itch with anticipation and snap with barely contained restraint on the apex of relief.

The nurse's heeled shoes tapped against the laminate, one heel scrapping slightly with each alternate step to make an uneven _tap-tap-ker-tap_ down the hall. She kept her head down, hair falling forward over her shoulders. She was cute. "Are there really...?" Her meek voice was almost lost in the echo of her shoes. "Outside, I mean. Are they waiting?"

"Yeah, I pushed passed them on the way in." John kept his hands deep in his pockets, keeping step with her even as he wished she'd go faster. "You ever been in the papers?"

She shook her head, looking anxious. John wouldn't have minded pushing Sherlock out to the cab himself if not for protocol and precedent. The nurse unlucky enough to have picked the short straw had only a minor part to play in the media spectacle awaiting them at any rate. Despite his pity for the innocent girl, any reprieve it gave John was a welcome one. He triggered the automatic doors, watching the swarm of black boxes, flashing lights and over-made faces flood in around them like a ditch in a rainstorm, the few police sent in to maintain order about as effective as a handful of sandbags to hold back the Thames.

"John! John, what is your response to accusations that Sherlock Holmes is Mary Morstan's murderer?"

"John, what are your and Sherlock's plans now that he's back?"

"Are you two back together?"

"What happened to Mary Morstan, Sherlock!?"

There was hardly room to walk between them and the cab waiting at the curb. John tried to push past them, one arm extended as he walked beside the wheelchair. There were protesters with signs just outside the news crews. ' _Lock up Sherlock!_ ' and ' _Sherlock 2, Justice 0_ ' leaping in bold marker above their heads on pinewood sticks. He felt ill facing it all again. John's memories were still too fresh to find anything the public came up with amusing. Ignoring it was as hard to do as forgiving their ignorance.

"Sherlock, any comment on the murder allegations?"

"How did you fake your death and why?"

"What happened to Richard Brook?"

"Why did she have to die?"

"How do you sleep at night, Mr. Holmes?"

The first egg shattered against Sherlock's shoulder leaving its slime trail down his arm. The nurse shrieked and let go of the wheelchair, running back inside as though it were gunshots raining down. It wouldn't have mattered to John if they were. Quickly he shrugged off his coat, sliding the black cotton shield over Sherlock's head and shoulders as a few more eggs sailed through the air over the reporters' heads towards them. John pushed the wheelchair to the open door of the cab, not hurried in the slightest. He carefully helped Sherlock shift from his current seat to soft bench of their ride, feeling the shatter of thin shells against his own back, his jumper's knit soaking in the fluid. He did not rush him. Sherlock grunted with a jolt of pain as he hurried himself but John kept him stable with one hand to his unwounded side and the other against his hip where hopefully no one could see. Settled, John closed the door and abandoned the wheelchair where it stood, pushing past the flash of cameras and the thrusting of microphones as he walked around to the other side and let himself in. He would have killed for tinted windows. The cameras never stopped as their driver took his time trying to pull out around the reporters and protesters. A few more eggs found the car as police officers tried to round up the aggressors. 

"Bollocks," the cabby cursed, muttering slightly after the outburst before his eyes searched the faces of his fare in the mirror. "You know what egg does to the paint job?" he asked, voice scratched raw from years of smoking.

John sighed, trying not to let his back touch the seats, uninterested in then hearing about what egg did to seat upholstery. "You want a bigger tip? Fine. Just get us away from here and back to 221B Baker Street."

The cabby scoffed and turned out on to the road, finally gaining enough speed to leave the noise and lights behind. Sherlock kept his eyes fixed outside the cab to his farewell party as long as he could, a very small smile lighting his face for no explainable reason John knew of. He blamed it on the morphine—perhaps he'd been a bit too generous when considering the discomfort of relocating. 

When Sherlock finally turned his attention to John, his expression was positively snarky though the thin wash of sweat on his brow testified to his physical state. "Well, that could have gone worse," he mused.

"Worse than getting pelted with raw eggs?" John asked, picking a shell off his shoulder. Sherlock looked far too pleased for a man facing at least one more criminal hearing before the end of the summer. 

"You saw what we were faced with: a whole mob of reporters. At least they keep their shit flinging figurative."

John hated him for failing to take anything seriously and for making him sputter into laughter as though he were incapable of doing the same. The cabby eyed them both through the rear-view mirror as they turned to fits of giggles, Sherlock's only mildly hampered by the discomfort of his wound. Hardly the proper response for two grown men in their positions. John tried not to look at Sherlock to get himself back under control, taking a few concentrated breaths while the last ripple of laughter rumbled against Sherlock's lips.

"Okay, get the giggles out now. We can't look pleased when we get home," John cautioned, clearing his throat and trying to test his chest for any stragglers.

Sherlock sighed, head resting against the window. He wore John's jacket over his shoulders and pinched it closed at his neck with his fingers like an old woman clutching her shawl. "Because it's not 'decent'?" he asked with obvious disdain. "Who cares?"

"Reporters. The people throwing eggs care. I care."

"Yes, but they're all idiots. I expect better from you, though, John."

John tapped his fingers against his knees, lips pursed in agitation. "That's fine. You can expect loads but that doesn't mean I'm going to just forget that we live in a world where other people's opinions matter or have you forgotten?"

"Next time a criminal mastermind wants to twist the facts, I'll remember to care. This will all blow over—you'll see."

"Where have I heard that before?" It was as much hypothetical as was not. John gave Sherlock a pointed look to which the other hardly batted an eyelash.

"Are we having a row already?" Sherlock asked.

Hardly. John sighed with exasperation, tasting his own bitterness in his breath. "Look, you don't have to look remorseful but I'd accept some variation of sullen for the morning paper."  
"Will sullen keep them from throwing more eggs?"

John was again conscious of the drying crust on his back. "No," he said.

"Then I'll make whatever face I happen to be making at the time."

A face which, currently, was going to make the public demand a life sentencing for all the smug is contained. John scooted closer to his side of the bench seat, dipping his face in close thanks to Sherlock's slouched posture. "Then I am going to pinch you before we get out of this car," he threatened. 

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, eyebrows drawn in displeasure. "Pinch me and I swear I'll laugh." 

It was almost worth it to test that threat. John leveled him with a warning glare which reflected pointlessly off the other man’s taunting expression. Unstoppable force had met immovable object. The trouble was defining which of them was which.

"I am going to kill you one of these days," John mock threatened. 

"Hardly," the other man said through a sigh. "You'll be the death of me. There is a very real distinction."

John frowned at that, fingers twitching against the material of his jeans. 

He remembered to scoot back to his side of the bench seat long before the curb of their home was in sight. Unsurprisingly, a similar group of reporters and protesting youth stood outside the stoop of their address, a few of them at least kind enough to patronize Speedy's in their stay. John readjusted his coat up over Sherlock's head just in case.

"I think I see a tomato," Sherlock said, gazing out the car window.

"Do you know what tomato does to a cab's paint job?" the cabby barked back to them.

John paid him, happy to have him shut up, then left the cab and started the whole process over again in reverse, minus the wheelchair. No wheelchair made things awkward but the stairs and narrow doorways made it impossible. As cameras flashed he wrapped his arms around Sherlock to help him crawl from his seat and become steady on his legs, keeping an arm against his back and the other hand resting gently just above the hip on his wounded side. As people shouted their questions he guided Sherlock slowly towards their home, careful to go slowly even as it seemed they posed at an almost standstill for every photographer wanting more 'salacious' photos of the two as London's most famous crime solving 'couple'. It made his stomach ache and tie itself in heavy knots. The tomato exploded against the wall next to 221B, splattering on Sherlock's face with lesser collateral damage given to John. A cameraman shouted at the punk to stop—he was going to damage his camera and did he not know how much it would cost to fix? John was going to punch someone, maybe several someones, if they did not get inside their home and away from the media as quickly as possible.

John all but slammed the door behind them.

Inside it was hard to be amused by the ' _Welcome Home Sherlock_ ' banner Mrs. Hudson had hung from the entry, more balloons and streamers a la Molly tied to banisters and taped to walls. Sherlock sighed loudly, eying the stairs like the inconvenient obstacle they were.

John pursed his lips, giving the stairs a quick look as well. "Party's tonight. Obviously. Think I said so earlier but... well, they started decorating yesterday so all that's that. Think you can make it or do you need me to, uh... well, carry you or something?"

"I'll manage," Sherlock said, putting his hand to the wall as he slowly took the flight up to the first landing. It was excruciating to watch. John walked several steps behind him, ready to catch him if he fell or help if he stumbled. It took some time but eventually Sherlock made it to their flat. He eyed the next set of stairs but John gripped him by the shoulders and directed him away.

"You're taking your remaining bed rest weeks in my room. It's still my room, though, so don't get too comfortable. You're moving upstairs once you're better." John walked him back and turned him towards the bathroom, using his shoulders to steer him. "First, though, we have got clean that egg and tomato shit off or else I'll be up all night doing the sheets and pillow cases as well as the rest of our clothes from today."

Sherlock chuckled, amiably following orders as he entered the bathroom and took a seat on the edge of the tub. John's jacket, the worst of the lot, fell into the tub behind him with a _thunk_ and _clang_ as he shrugged it off and started on his own blazer and the dress shirt beneath. John stood at the sink, wiping mess of his face with a clean towel as he waited. He made no effort to hide his gaze as he watched the slow unveiling of Sherlock's torso. 

He'd gained weight. It was obvious in the dip of his clavicle and the shadows of his ribs. He was still thin—half a stone shy of underweight, maybe less—but from the pull of his buttons to the contours of his chest, he was much more what he had been before. To call him healthy would be to ignore the underlying causes of his thinness but still made John feel that much more confident as he ran warm water over the corner of another washcloth. "Don't let me forget to go over that paperwork Lestrade talked about. The damn lawyers have been over it enough by now but I still need to check a few of the provisions."

Sherlock groaned loudly, his head falling back, skin taught over his Adam's apple. "Oh, god, are we really—"

"Yes, really, we are." He walked over to him, somewhat appreciative of his neck's incline as he began to wipe his face clean of the tomato juices and stuck slime from the eggs. A collection of small tomato seeds were stuck in the curls at his right temple which he gently picked and wiped free. "Things have changed, Sherlock. You know they have. Lestrade can't have you helping out on cases if you're not on the force and your favorite cases fall under police jurisdiction. You want to handle murder investigations, you have to sign the contract with Scotland Yard."

Sherlock's pout was hardly effective with a wash cloth pulling at his cheeks. He batted his eyes open, one hand running though the crust of egg in his hair as he sat otherwise still. "You mean I have to do all the boring stuff and act like a proper Inspector."

"Just a little. You'll be a consulting detective just like before, just now on retainer to the Yard. Benefits, pay, everything that comes with a normal job. You have to meet a three case quota per month but you can pick and choose the ones you want otherwise. They are being very generous, Sherlock." John pushed Sherlock's fingers from the crusted curls and dampened them with his cloth. "I'll be hired on too as your personal assistant. I'll do all the write ups and forms that the Yard requires so you won't have to do anything but knock out three boring cases a month and wait for something that sparks your interest to come in. It's not a big deal. Knowing you, you could meet your quota in an afternoon. If what Mycroft and Greg say is true, this is pretty damn near the perfect compromise. And it'll be a great move for your public image. Gives you some... authority."

"I _am_ an authority on crime, John."

"Yes, and until these idiots get the facts through their heads, that makes you a murderer." John returned to the sink, washing out the dark blue cloth before returning with it, refreshed in warmth and near sopping this time. He plopped it in Sherlock's hair, not really wanting to have to wash it properly just yet. A whore's bath would do for the time being. His bandages were still clean and fresh and better served him than any shower could. He tussled his hair in the moist towel, wetting every strand till the dark brown curls turned black with damp. Sherlock closed his eyes, still scowling just slightly though his throat hummed in a not all unpleasant tone as John's hands rubbed against his scalp. John followed loose trails of water down his face and neck, wiping them away against the valley of his chest. He swallowed. "I'm not really asking you to sign the contract, Sherlock; I'm telling you to. We need this."

"I'll look it over."

"Sherlock—"

"I said I'll look it over," he reiterated, opening his eyes again with startling precision as his gaze locked on to John's without searching. John took a deep breath, frustrated but still a million miles from mad. He plopped the wet cloth in Sherlock's face and walked back out the door to the bedroom. 

"Fine then," John said, looking back to see Sherlock tossing the wet rag to the sink. "I'll bring it out tomorrow. Right now I want you in bed after you do whatever else you need to do in there. I'll get your sleep things so don't re-dress."

Sherlock gave a short grunt of acceptance as the lid to the toilet clanged into the upright position. John walked away to the window since his patient lacked the courtesy to close the door. Sherlock's pills were in the pocket of his jacket, currently located at the bottom of the empty tub. So long as he could hear Sherlock engaged otherwise, it didn't really make him worry the detective might be sneaking a few extra for just-in-case measures. He hated doubting him. He hated the alternative more.

"How on earth do those doctors expect anyone to recover with a tube inserted in their urethra?" Sherlock bemoaned on a satisfied sigh, enjoying a good piss though John did his best not to listen in. "John, forget the sleep clothes. I've been wearing those scratchy robes for weeks."

"Your own stuff isn't scratchy," John noted, though it was far from an argument against his friend simply sleeping in the nude. It made checking his bandages fairly simple at any rate. He refolded the shirt and pajama bottoms, stacking them again on the top of the dresser. 

Perhaps sensing his consent or simply not caring to receive it, Sherlock did not bother replying before the toilet flushed and he emerged in none but the faint rivers of water still trickling down his neck. John tried to look occupied as he watched him move with stilted grace in percussive fluidity from the bathroom straight towards the bed, one hand trailing against the wall and objects for support with the other wrapped around his waist to gently hug his wounded side. Sherlock had naked down to an art, exuding little in sexuality and even less in frailty even for all the care he took in his movements. It was amazing at times to consider what came naturally to a man who couldn't master tact or good judgment. It was innocence, John wagered at last, that probably explained it—in the same way a naked child was simply precious or humorous. It was an interesting feat for someone in his thirties. John reached over and helped pull the blankets down as Sherlock slowly sat and unfolded into a lay with a pained grimace.

"Just left everything for me to pick up on the bathroom floor too, I take it?" John mused as he straightened the top sheet over Sherlock's legs, pulling it taut and fixing it over him as Sherlock fussed with his pillow.

Sherlock chuckled lightly. "Is there any other way to do it?"

"Arse." John pushed his face to the side in a mock slap as he went to collect his egg and tomato splashed clothes. He grabbed the pills from his coat pocket, giving the prescription a quick count based on volume and finding it to be fine. "You in any way hungry or are you worn out from the adventure?"

"I'll sleep, thanks." Sherlock sighed loudly, eyes staring up at the ceiling as John walked past. "I'm getting old, John. Look at me. A couple flights of stairs and a few short walks and I'm completely wiped out."

"That's not age, that's injury." John took a seat on the bed, uncapping a bottle of water sat out and handing his patient a pill and a drink. Sherlock sat up and took both, groaning as he flopped back down.

"Thanks."

John nodded, setting the water at arm’s reach as he stood up. Sherlock's fingers paused against his hand as he did so, calling John's attention back down to him with the gentleness of their press. "You need anything else?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No. Just thinking you should stay here with me."

John licked his lips, caught again in the quicksand of Sherlock's eyes that seemed to draw him in faster the harder he fought. "You'll be asleep before the half hour. And I have that contract stuff that at least one of us should read cover to cover."

"Do it later."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock's fingers wrapped around his wrist, tugging at him gently. His face was neutral and passive, full lips neither tugged at with joy or displeasure. John felt a shiver close to dread run down his spine. He could remember quite clearly kissing those lips, hard and with as much anger as passion, believing it to be goodbye and just one less thing to regret. He regretted it now in their first time truly alone since then. Sherlock surely hadn't forgotten. John hadn't been able to. The memory of it still sent a tingling sensation through his chest and belly. He'd kissed Sherlock Holmes like a close-lipped bite, all teeth and angles with no tenderness to soften the embittered gesture. But it was still a kiss. 

With that one, impulsive move he'd said far too much. 

John put his hand over Sherlock's, slowly pulling it from his own wrist and laying it against Sherlock's chest. "You should rest," he said, forcing a smile as the grey eyes searched him. "I'll check in on you pretty regularly so don't worry. I've got this."

Sherlock's eyes lingered in their stare before finally he took a deep breath, allowing his eyes to close. "I know you do," he said, as much in response to John as to the unspoken that warred between them.

"Yeah... well... good night, Sherlock."

"It's afternoon."

John snorted, shaking his head as he went for the door. "Right. Just go to sleep," he ordered, careful not to look back once he'd turned away.

He left without need of reply.


	4. Chapter 4

John was not a gadget man. He enjoyed his electric razor though shied away from any that had more options than a light switch, only invested in new phones with 'smart' technology at the insistence and often expense of others, and generally waited until forced to mess with anything with a touch screen. Stabbing at yet another flimsy piece of technological frustration with his middle finger, John was half ready to break the thing in two as it continued to refuse to accept his swipes, jabs, and tapping. 

Laying on the bed above the blankets, dressed in his pajamas with legs crossed at the ankles, Sherlock watched John with a look of utter perplexity. "How are you still having a hard time with this? I just showed you."

"Yeah, well, I'm about to show this stupid thing who's boss here in a minute." John shook the tablet like an Etch A Sketch, feeling almost immediately the hard press of Sherlock's hand against his lower back in warning.

"Give it."

John was only too happy to thrust it back at him, swiveling on the mattress to sit facing him. "That thing hates me."

"This _thing_ is a _thing_." Sherlock shook his head, fingers selecting, altering, accepting, and relocating across the screen in a fluid flourish of long, gliding fingers. "A computer is not capable of hate or spite or favoritism. If it works when I do it, it will work when you do it, so long as you are doing it correctly."

"You've watched me! Just how incorrectly can I touch a picture on a screen?!"

Sherlock shrugged, handing the tablet back to him after being assured he hadn't truly buggered it up. "Maybe you're doing it too hard."

John set his jaw, breathing angrily through his nose. He was good at laptops—he'd taken laptops to crime scenes before without any trouble. The weight of them didn't bother him, he didn't mind holding it out and scanning corpses with the camera to give Sherlock a better look. This was a Sherlock device, not a John one, and yet it was specifically purchased by Scotland Yard for him. The more knowledgeable about the tablet Sherlock was, though, the more John suspected he'd been the one to suggest it.

Sherlock rose up slowly on his elbows, remaining careful of the wound that was still on the mend. Only home a week. The ink had hardly been dry on the contract before Lestrade had been on the phone with a murder investigation ready to whet Sherlock's appetite for a case and stifle it for food. His tea on the bedside table was mostly untouched save for the actual drink now half-drunk from its cup. John was annoyed from a doctor’s perspective but habitually pleased to find Sherlock’s mood kindly tempered with curious inquiry. Resolved to be a help rather than a hindrance, John took up the tablet once more and, adjusting his speed and pressure to the task with the soft pad of his thumb, tapped the icon for the video chat program and watched it open on his screen.

Sherlock's smirk was audible.

"I still say it likes you better," John muttered, plugging in his settings with his new-found language of slides and touch.

"Do you anthropomorphize all your toys?"

"Just the ones that have an attitude problem." John set his tablet on its stand and leaned over Sherlock like a bridge over a stream, calling up the partner program on Sherlock's device in order to check his was working. A few clicks gave him a clear enough answer as his own back, rounded out over Sherlock's legs, came into view on the screen. "You see that? First try. Laptops like me. Laptops work."

Sherlock looked over at his computer. "Well, it's nice to not be the only arse in the room, anyway."

John kneed him hard in the thigh as Sherlock chuckled, the contagion starting as John hung his head, laughing at the stupidity. "Oh, god, that reminds me. You have got to fix my phone."

"Fix it? What's wrong with it now?"

John pushed back up into a seated position, casting Sherlock his own version of the ' _we both know what's going on here_ ' look. "You said you were going to fix the wallpaper settings," he reminded him.

"John, that was ages ago. You still—"

"Yes. Yes, I do." John fished around on the bedside table for it and slid the screen open, holding it out to his friend as part of his plea. "This has got to be fixed before I take this out onto the field or instead of looking at corpses, I'm going to be explaining to the Yard how it came to be that I have a purely platonic picture of your bum on my phone."

"I'm fully dressed."

"Still your bum."

Sherlock took it from him, his face skewed in an attempt not to laugh or smile ridiculously. "Well, we wouldn't want all the other children on the playground to laugh at you."

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no. No, I'm worried they're going to get one look at this and then they're all going to want one. And it'll be all ' _where do I get one, John', 'can I have yours_?' and we'll never get anything done."

Sherlock gave up on trying to keep from laughing, a feat John hadn't even attempted once he'd fallen from chatter to teasing. He liked making Sherlock laugh. It was hardly best practices with a stitched up side and oblique injury but the light in his pale eyes made it feel like good medicine anyway. Sherlock bit his bottom lip to still his chuckle, a few awkward breaths-turned-trailing-post-laugh-sighs escaping all the same as he nimbly worked on the phone. "Alright, so what do you want it to be instead?"

"Doesn't matter. Just plain black or one of the saved default things is fine."

Sherlock nodded, his face falling back into normal passivity. "You want me to delete some of the photos off here while I'm at it?"

John leaned forward, trying to see his screen in Sherlock's grasp. "What sort of stuff do I have on there?" he asked.

"About twenty pictures of the inside of your coat pocket by the looks of it," Sherlock leaned away, keeping the phone tilted just enough to remain out of John's sight. "Then there's that one of me and a few of her."

John froze for a second, his chest constricting painfully in a flinch of muscles and organs. Even if heartache was all in the head, it certainly felt like a punch to the sternum. "Ah... you know what? Just… uh… leave those. For now. You can get rid of the pocket ones but… I mean, I'll go through the others."

Sherlock just nodded quietly, handing John his phone back without much more ado. The wallpaper wasn't black or any solid color but instead an odd vortex of greens, blue and white like a whirlpool near the break. It was very much different from the slender silhouette he'd had saved there previously. It was certainly less awkward but somehow felt less like his. John slid it in his coat pocket, mindful of the camera button just in case. "Right, thanks. I think that's about everything then."

"Except the speech," Sherlock pointed out, crossing his arms behind his head as he fell back onto his pillow

John hated being predictable. With Sherlock, it came with the territory. "I take it you also know what I'm going to say?" he asked.

Sherlock sighed. "You want me to refrain from saying anything about the other officers that might make them feel more inferior than they demonstrably are, to stick to conversations about the actual case and to remember that everyone can hear me, there is no such thing as an aside over video chat."

"Yeah, that's pretty much the gist of it." John let out his own sigh, knowing full well that reciting the rules meant nothing in the application of them. He'd done more than a little reading into Asperger’s in the eighteen months he'd spent living with him. He'd done quite a bit more in the months he'd been away for some clue as to what sign he'd missed that meant he was completely undone. He held up the daily pill box and shook it for emphasis. "I should be back before you need to take these but they're here if I'm not. You have to take them with food so call Mrs. Hudson if you don't feel up to walking and she'll bring you in something."

"I don't see why you need to tell me all this when we're going to be talking the entire time you're out via the internet."

John shrugged. "That's work. While we're there it's time for work-talk. This is home-talk."

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, which, after a week, had become something akin to a dart board for all the things he’d peppered it with. "Everything is related to the work, John. It's just the scope that's gotten greater."

"Maybe for you but I still have a life outside criminals and maniacs." John packed his tablet away and leaned over, feeling Sherlock's head for fever before masking the concern with a tussle of his hair. Sherlock turned his head, trying to escape the affectionate toss. "I'll call you when I get to the scene. Lestrade's on duty so it'll be him and me for the most part but you know there will be others so just... well, good luck."

"To you too. It's your first day on the job after all." Sherlock gave him a warm smile as he watched John stand. "I hope you get an utter idiot who gives you an excuse to show off your nice new badge."

Secretly, John did too. 

Such was not the case however, as Lestrade greeted John at the crime scene tape, hurrying him past and in towards the officers currently working. His celebrity hadn't been missed among their rank. John felt a little nervous under the stare of strangers even with Lestrade at his side. Greg certainly wasn't going to be enough to keep him from chinning the first idiot who said anything ignorant. 

"So how is he?" Lestrade asked, waiting as John fussed with the tablet, starting it up to get running and ready to connect. "You about ready to call in for reinforcements?"

"Sherlock's doing well, actually. Keeps trying to prove he's ready to get out of bed for more than the time it takes to use the toilet or find the couch, but I don't have to fight him too much on it. He wants to be properly better, not just okay sooner. At least I think he understands that, anyway." John gave him a small shrug of his eyebrows with nothing really more extensive to add to the subject. The chat program was already loading and thus the man himself would soon be among them in his own restrictive way to offer answers on health and humors.

No sooner had John connected than Sherlock's slightly brooding face appeared, looking far less pleasant than when John had left him. The ' _uh oh_ ' feeling in John's stomach clamped down hard as his eyes scanned for physical signs of what could be troubling him.

"You should have been there six minutes ago, John," Sherlock complained, readjusting his laptop over his thighs for a brief view of his belly before the screen and camera were folded up further. "I hope you didn't tip him well. Such unimpressive service should go without reward."

Nothing, then. Fantastic.

"Evening, Sherlock," Lestrade waved to the screen, leaning in over John's shoulder. "You're looking better."

"Thank you. I have a very competent physician." Sherlock offered the compliment quickly, moving on in the next instant as he scowled, waving at John with a swish of his hand. "Hold me out. Scan the area. I want to see where I am."

"Alright, hold on." John turned the tablet out, remembering to hold it up a bit to give him a more normal view for his stature. The crime scene was nondescript by all accounts, just brick walls and alleyways which gave good cover but no real added advantage from any other near identical spot in the area. Even the graffiti was more or less indistinct with a few tags and a stenciled design or two. A utilities pole said someone had lost a cat and that a vacancy had opened up nearby. Below it was a flier for the symphony performing at the Royal Albert Hall the next month. John made a quick mental note of that. Tickets were probably already on sale. Without further instruction, John decided on the full three-sixty view and continued to turn in place. As he rolled over the heads of the other officers, he could hear Sherlock hiss in distaste. 

"Oh, god, it's been _breeding_ ," he cursed. 

John skewed his eyes, looking out in the dark towards the other officers. After only a second, without much searching at all, he caught the gaze of someone looking back at him with large, startled brown eyes. He was somewhat surprised he hadn't noticed her before. Sally Donovan stood by one of the police vehicles, averting her line of sight the moment she could tell he'd seen her. She looked to his own eyes as fit as ever, pant suit smart and ringlet hair styled much the same as before. Women of her age had the benefit of not aging much in three years. That or when she sold her soul to the devil to be rid of Sherlock, she'd gotten some youth as a sign-on bonus.

John wasn't all that surprised that the sight of her still filled him with anger. He was disappointed in his inability to let it go after three years, but not surprised.

John pulled the tablet back into his view, not wanting to broadcast whatever disgusted face Sherlock was putting on regardless of his shared response. "You mean Sergeant Donovan?" he asked.

"Clearly. Married with an infant now. God, the freedoms they allow people. Wasn't there any sane person left on the planet to object? Remind me to ask Mycroft about spaying the dispensable."

"Sherlock!" John put his hand over the picture's mouth instinctively though instantly saw the problem with that. He put his hand back to hold the side panel, lowering his voice in hopes he might do the same. "You cannot preach eugenics at a time like this! Not even as a joke. The papers will go mad; do you hear me?!"

Sherlock sighed, hardly looking as though he felt in anyway ashamed of himself. 

John rubbed his face. He was going to kill him when he got home. Smother him with a pillow. No one would blame him. "How do you even know she's had kids?"

" _A_ kid; singular. Recently too by the size of her breasts--swollen; still lactating. Could be a boob job, but a woman in her profession wants to be taken seriously and augmenting ones’ breasts isn't the way to go about that in a traditionally male-dominated line of work when you're looking to be judged on your accomplishments. Ring on the left hand suggests marriage—obvious. The father probably works a day shift somewhere, has the flexibility of a schedule that can work around the unpredictable nature of homicide investigation... oh. Oh, god." Sherlock looked away, hand to his mouth. "Never mind. I'm going to make myself sick. Show me the body."

Lestrade chuckled, hands in his pockets and he laughed. "For the record, they're a lovely couple."

John raised an eyebrow, tilting his chin back towards the other officers. "Sorry, who?"

"Speak another word and I will have John hit you."

"I will not." John turned the tablet out, walking beside Lestrade as they approached the medical examiners and their bloody, bullet torn body.

The tablet, on second thought, was rather nice. It weighed a substantial amount less than the laptop he’d once used for this purpose, was less awkward to turn and position according to Sherlock's instructions, and he could even hold it on one hand while moving collars or fingers, offering as good a view as had the man himself been there. He didn't feel so bad about the work expense after floating around a corpse for ten minutes, waving it about without arm fatigue. It only took ten minutes because John had to coordinate with his requests and fumble with the vague instructions that would have been a second nature gesture to the true detective. Ten minutes of kneeling, standing, and laying, though, and Sherlock had enough to go on to give Lestrade two solid leads, one confirming quite well the description of a detained suspect. Ten minutes. 

John shook his head, breathing out a soft, breathy laugh. "You are absolutely amazing," he half whispered to the microphone.

"Bring home a take-away?"

"You bet." John balanced the screen against his stomach as he used his other hand to navigate the screen. "I'll call from the cab. See you in a bit."

Sherlock nodded, smiling, and the screen went blank.

John folded the case back over the device, feeling a high of accomplishment. 

"I can't get over you two," Lestrade shook his head, rubbing the back of his head as he smiled nervously. "You, eh… won't be offended if I ask you a personal question will you?"

"Only if it's ' _are you two dating_ '." John stipulated in jest, looking up to see the nervous smile replaced with just nervousness. John blinked in bewilderment, pulling back slightly. "You too? _Seriously_?" John stood with his mouth slightly agape for a moment, hoping panic wasn't registering above surprise. "Greg, you know me."

"Yeah, I know I do. Was a time, though, I thought I knew Sherlock too, but, well… people change." Lestrade kept his hands in his pockets, head slightly bent and his eyes constantly shifting, never lingering long in connection to John's. "He’s better since he met you. I read your blog so I know it's pretty much the same for you too. I’m sorry I didn’t... well, before he did the suicide thing, that I, uh—“

“We really don’t need to do this,” John offered, hand waving aside the awkward conversation as a non-issue. Forgiving Greg had been easy when it came to the events of three years ago. Nothing needed said that could erase or make better of it now.

Lestrade wasn’t swayed by simple acceptance, though. “Just let me apologize, at least, for what happened back then. And, well, just to add that it wouldn’t matter to me either way if you two were… you know."

"Thanks... I guess." John licked his lips and tried to swallow again, his whole mouth as dry as a cedar box. 

Lestrade slapped him on the shoulder with a good ol' boy smack and an easy smile that seemed much better for the short chat. "Good to have you here all proper like. This should be fun."

"Oh, yeah. Time of our lives." John smiled slightly, his heart still beating a little too fast in his chest from anxiety as he walked away and out towards the main street to call a cab. He needed to play it cool; he had to breathe in and remember to exhale or else his face would turn red and his ears would burn. 

Greg Lestrade just asked if he was dating Sherlock Holmes. One of their few shared friends just asked...

They were going to have to be more careful. Much more careful. 

John shoved his free hand in his coat pocket to retrieve his phone, the other still supporting the tablet against his turned wrist. He'd only glanced at the time before the phone buzzed in his hand, an unknown number flashing on the screen. He didn't care to answer any mystery calls. Probably another reporter, some fanatic, someone eager to get the latest scoop. He rejected it, slipping the phone back in his pocket with a quick nod to the hour of eight-twenty-one. He pulled up the police tape and let himself back under.

A voice broke the space of the eventual silence, a click of heels preceding. "John!" 

He paused, turning slightly towards the speaker though he knew without sight who is was. He had half a mind to keep walking. Sally ran up, her tight curls bouncing against her shoulders as she stood on the other side of the police tape. She remained several feet away, more than an arm’s length but not far enough to escape the sharpness of John's glare. "I really have nothing to say to you, Sally." Why he bothered to give her the time it took to tell her even that he wasn't sure. The high from the case had pretty well vanished in less time that it took to solve it.

Sally took a deep breath, her bottom lip tucked tight behind her teeth for a moment before she laid her hands out in the air between them, palms up. "I never... I should have, though. You know. After. Things just... Well, it's just—"

"Making sense would nice," John interjected, all out of patience for the evening as his eyes scanned the stars for a moment amidst a half roll of annoyance.

Sally scowled but the fire in her eyes was no more than a spark in the rain. "I'm trying to say I'm sorry," she said, nervousness changing her pitch. "And that... I believe in him, in that weird, amazing brain of his. I don't mean _weird_ , I mean... I don't like to admit it but he is... better. Than us. At these sorts of cases. We need him. London needs him. So... welcome to the force."

John's brows flinched, his eyes blinking awkwardly. He scratched his head behind his left ear, looking off towards the brick facing of the closest building as he weighed the responses between ' _fuck you_ ' and ' _thanks_ '. He scanned her briefly, reminding himself of Sherlock's deductions. "Is it still Donovan?" he asked.

"Ah... no. It's, uh... Anderson."

John couldn't help but chuckle through his nose slightly. "Well, it'll have to be Sally, then." He put his free hand in his coat pocket, backing away towards the street. "Evening, Sally. See you around."


	5. Chapter 5

"They're playing Mahler at the Royal Albert Hall," Sherlock said, skimming his fingers across the top of his bath water to disturb the soap foam floating above the otherwise clear pool. He'd been soaking in the tub for all the time that John had needed the bathroom and seemed intent to remain in there until John no longer had a use for the facilities himself. He'd washed his hair while John shaved, rubbed himself down with a washcloth while John brushed his teeth, and now seemed content to simply soak while John sat on the closed lid of the toilet to clip his toenails into the waste-bin.

It wasn't exactly a new occurrence. It had originally taken John only three weeks to accept the fact that Sherlock was going to use the toilet when and if he had to regardless of whether John was in the shower or not. Reciprocation had been spiteful in intention but accepted as necessary by his flatmate considering the one bathroom shared between them. Long before Sherlock's faked demise it had simply been part of everyday life with the bathroom door hardly ever locked though shut. It had been weird at first, John couldn't deny that, but it was hard to continue to consider it so much as awkward anymore with its regularity and mutual acceptance. John had to admit he enjoyed the domesticity of having someone there to tell him if he missed a spot or had shaving foam behind his ears and to answer the really important questions like _'should I grow a mustache?_ ' and _'does the sell-by date on mouth wash really matter_?'.

Sitting in his boxers, left leg crossed with his foot against his right knee, John made sure not to get toenail clippings sailing across the room as he groomed his feet, the big toenail having bothered him most of the day at Scotland Yard as it smashed against the front of his shoe. He wasn't having any more of that on his night out. John kept his head down, looking at his own task rather than gazing up to where Sherlock reclined, facing him in shameless nudity. "Mahler?" he repeated, unfamiliar with the name but expectantly so. "Anything I'd recognize?"

"Probably not."

"Any good?"

Sherlock nodded, letting his head rest on the tile wall behind his head. "Mycroft promised to get us good seats. He's currently working out whether balcony seating would best keep us safe from the masses or if they would make it all too easy for people like Moran to pick us out."

John pursed his lips with the mention of the assassin, trying not to let concern show much in his body or face otherwise. "Right. Well, how do you think we're doing as far as keeping him entertained? Haven't exactly had any big cases yet. Not like we've been idle but... I mean, with the injuries and cases we've got, it's not like we can do much more than we've done."

"He's entertained."

There was a certainty in his voice that made John pause. He looked up, catching his friend's faraway stare with a sick feeling of apprehension. He looked back at his toes, fiddling with the clippers and the white lines of growth. "You two stay in contact, then?" he asked. The thought of Sherlock speaking casually with Mary's murderer and their mortal enemy made his skin feel tight. 

"I'm kept informed," was Sherlock's less than acceptable reply. His fingers splashed against the water, a sign at least of his own annoyance. "You can read the e-mails if you'd like. He's loving the media attention."

"Does your brother know you've spoken with him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "What he doesn't know is often of more consequence than what he does. Not that it matters in this case. No, Mycroft's busy at the moment with a particularly ambitious brunette who has her sights on becoming Mrs. Mycroft Holmes." He slid down in the water, his long, pale legs sliding up against the white tile as his chin slipped to the water's crest, tilting back till it lapped at his temples.

John looked up, the sound which rose up from his throat something halfway between a choke and a cough "Not the—"

"Anthea? No, not his type." Sherlock smirked at the jealousy, curls floated on the surface of the water in close tendrils like a gorgon's writhing locks. "Taller, narrower, with a cold disposition not unlike his own. Never bothered to learn her name—it annoyed him all too nicely to have to remind me. She's an intelligent woman of genetic compatibility being of good physical and mental stock. He intends to be a father, the poor sod, and to go through with it in the socially acceptable ways befitting his station."

For all this distanced, dispassionate ways, John couldn't help but think Mycroft would make a good father. He certainly knew how to be patient when dealing with the stubborn irrationality of a child. "Didn't know Mycroft was a family man."

"He's not. The way he sees it though, it's down to either him or me to continue on the Holmes' legacy and I am unlikely to procreate. It's now or never, really; he's certainly not getting any younger."

John smirked and shook his head. There certainly was proof to the idea that genius such as theirs could be passed along the blood lines and that sort of altruistic approach to fatherhood suited John's idea of Mycroft very well. He uncrossed his legs and traded out, starting on his other foot. "I guess it's good luck to him, then. I take it the woman knows it'd be a marriage of convenience?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pushing back up into a less slouched position as his legs rolled back to bend along the tub walls. "She'll have power and prestige for life for little more than a limited sexual obligation and nine months of relative discomfort. It's mutually beneficial and I'm sure the legal paperwork will address all necessary provision." He sighed, waving dismissively towards John with a few flicks of water shedding from his fingertips. "Marriage is by practice nothing more than a business partnership, John. Not everyone preoccupies themselves with love."

John chuckled. "Yeah, they do," he said, pausing over his middle toe. "I mean, romance, no. Most people don't really care day to day about flowers and chocolate and extravagant dates. But love isn't about that stuff. Love can actually be that sense of security in knowing you're provided for for some people. I mean, I once knew a bloke who said love was being with a girl who wasn't afraid to fart in front of him and who'd pop the zits on his back."

"And was this friend the sort whose name was always preceded by an adjective like 'Shagger Jack' or 'Funky Mike'?"

"No, it was like… Bill, or something." It was an unimportant detail but he could hardly let Sherlock get away with such oversimplified stereotypes. Not all his old mates were tossers. "But no, I mean, it sounds stupid, yeah, but when you think about it, it makes sense. It's kind of deep, really. His ideal woman was a girl who was comfortable enough with herself to just be a real person around him and who cared about him enough to accept his flaws no matter how gross. Who doesn't want that?"

Sherlock shrugged, left hand falling under the water to stroke against the uneven skin of his scar, fingers idling over the still scabbed parts where the wound had been deepest. John watched, wary of seeing him pick at the mostly healed area. "An interesting deduction from a description of stomach gases and pore puss."

"Not a deduction, just cold hard facts of life. Out there, girls don't fart, men don't scratch, and nobody sweats or shits." The bullshit look Sherlock gave him was countered quickly with raised eyebrows and a solemn nod from John, his expression mockingly grave. It was very much the truth, though, and even ridiculous as it sounded, it was hard not to give it the credit it deserved. Human beings were as terrified of their own bodies as they were of strangers’. Even as a doctor, John felt himself pulled along with the desire to conform and pretend there was never a need for a man to adjust his genitals. Biology wasn't sexy and so it just plain didn't exist outside of illness, child rearing and intercourse. He'd never really bothered to think about it before Sherlock, though. It made him feel stupid now. "It's pretty much a game," he explained, changing to terms he knew his friend could respect. "People lie all the time about who they are. People aren't themselves and you don't really know a person at all until weeks in when they sort of start to forget to be who they want you to think they are and can't help but be real."

Sherlock's eyes were darkened in their appraisal. It was impossible to believe Sherlock hadn't observed the oddities of the human courtship methods but an eyewitness account was more informative than any outside deduction. He pursed his lips for a moment, looking a bit like a lanky duck before readjusting his face into something less skewed, "And who is John Watson when he's on the prowl?" he asked.

John felt his ears ripen slightly—more out of shame than embarrassment. "Understated," he said, "Funny. Depending on the girl, I either play up the soldier bit or the doctor part. Not much different, really, but I definitely leave out the part where I like to spend my nights armed and ready to be solving crimes with the world's only Consulting Detective. People don't generally get that bit and it's not much of a conversation piece when you're chatting a girl up at a pub." 

He ran his thumb over his toes, checking for sharp edges and harsh bits before setting his feet back on the ground, ready to stand and move on to getting dressed and ready. There was the sound of sloshing water, though, and the movement of something long and pale out of his peripheral vision. He looked over as the wet leg prodded against his thigh, glistened with the sheen of water. The wet made random paths over the well-muscled calf and through the light hair running down his shin before pooling and dripping down to the tile floor. Sherlock wiggled his toes at him, a silent request or unspoken demand that said ' _while you're there; while you have those out.._.'. John gave him a stern stare but didn't mind enough to say no or knock the foot back towards the tub. Instead he rested his palm against the taught tendons along the top and curled his fingers along the hard stretch of his arch to hold his foot still as he moved the clippers to his friend's big toe and worked his way down the line.

Sherlock smiled just a tad, keeping still for him. "You don't mention me at all, then." 

"Not by choice." John let his arm rest against his shin, feeling the tepidity of the water in the heat of his skin. He'd have gotten out ages ago were it him. "I mean, yeah, sometimes I get recognized and they're curious but it's not really a topic you keep on about. ' _What do you do?_ Oh, me, I work for Scotland Yard. _Really?_ Yeah, really. _Well, I'm a waitress_. That's great.' See? It's just... formalities. Like what Uni you went to or if you like dogs. No one wants to know your A levels or the name of every pet you've ever owned. It's just shit you say and if it's actually important, like they're a teacher or a veterinarian, then you go into it a bit but mostly it's just polite conversation." 

Sherlock nodded slowly, his schooled expression slipping along with his line of sight. John half wanted to roll his eyes at the idea that Sherlock was disappointed in being an omission when he was chatting up women. He could understand it though, oddly enough. Sherlock didn't make a habit of talking to strangers but if he were asked to describe his work or life in general, John was certain he'd expect to hear mention of himself. Some things were too intertwined to be left out and a man who wrote the adventures of Sherlock Holmes in what was supposed to be his personal blog really had very little room to argue against the importance of the other man in his life. 

That didn't make it an okay topic for 'prowling' as he'd put it, though. Nothing turned off a woman more than the gushings of a fanboy that could make the tabloid papers roll back the presses. No one wanted to compete against Sherlock Holmes. In all honesty, no one could.

Not in some ways. 

"I envy you a bit, ya know," John said, pushing down on the knuckle of his friend's little toe to uncurl it.

Sherlock lifted his gaze to his, curious eyes looking for answers before questions. "In what way?" 

"In the way that makes it so you don't have to follow these stupid rules about being out in public." John squeezed his foot before letting go, lifting his arms to let the left one slide away and make room for the right which crossed over to his thigh several inches shorter in its reach. He turned his body more towards the tub to better grasp it, the new angle keeping the toes pointed towards his belly. His heel rested snugly in the well of his thighs. "You don't care and so you only attract the kind of people who can accept you exactly the way you are," he continued, careful of the quick. "The worst true friend you'll ever have is someone who thinks they can change you enough to make everyone else understand what it is that they can see in you. Your personality weeds out fair-weather friends and acquaintances. What is it—WarGames? —that says the only way to win the game is to not play it? Well, you've won, Sherlock. The rest of us mortals are stuck treading water while you're out on the shore."

Sherlock shrugged, wiggling his toes this time while John clasped his hand more firmly around them, holding still the dancing piggies. "It's completely within your power to be the same way."

"Within my power, yeah. But I couldn't do it. I work hard at being Mr. Understanding Nice Guy. It's comfortable, it's what I'm used to. Not saying I'm not that guy but... I don't know. Being real is very intimate and most people can't handle that level of honesty on a casual level."

"Do you pretend when you're with me?"

John couldn't help but laugh. "Honestly, I'm flattered you think I could. No, Sherlock, there's really no point in filtering myself around you. You'd see through it for one and for another it's..." It was nice not to have to. It felt good to say and do almost exactly what he wanted to because the reality of the situation was so much more interesting than any fantasy. Because John had become as addicted to the pursuit of truth as he was to adrenalin and danger. Because he couldn't help but stop caring about the things that didn't really matter when it was just the two of them. "...Well, it's pointless no matter what," he said, finishing with the last toe and releasing his foot like a fish for the water. 

Sherlock bent his thigh to his chest to inspect the work, a nod given in his appreciation before unraveling and sliding up to sit as John stood, slipped the clippers back into the drawer and walked out through the sliding bedroom door.

It was John's room alone once more. Sherlock's things had been returned back to the room upstairs though the speed at which his friend did his unpacking was snail-paced at best. John still found the odd belonging on a dresser or under his bed like mobile chargers, socks and a glass microscope slides. They weren't entirely unwelcome, save when they were found underfoot. He enjoyed bemoaning them just for show. Sometimes he got the feeling Sherlock left things there just so he would. 

The surging of water as John took jeans and a button up shirt from the wardrobe announced the end of Sherlock's bath, the wet pounding of his feet on the rug almost silenced by the ruffle of his towel. John shrugged into his shirt, buttoning it carefully while his jeans he plopped on the bed.

"You could just stay here tonight if you'd rather not bother with it," Sherlock called out amidst the sound of him raking a towel over his head. 

John smirked, thumb pressing yet another white button through its tight hole in the khaki-colored shirt. "Tempting but no. It's extremely important that we get on with the other people at Scotland Yard. We're getting a lot of preferential treatment and the last thing we need is resentment along with it from everyone else." That wasn't even the half of it, and though they both knew the full truth, it didn't go without repeating. "You had a lot of enemies before; I'd like us to try and start over and gets things smoothed over. Hopefully, after a few nights out, I can get them to just sort of roll their eyes when you're being a dick instead of taking it personally. Or at least get them on my side where they can just vent about it over a pint and let it go."

"John, it's not your job to make people like me."

John looked over his shoulder, watching a toweled Sherlock watching him with straight-faced candor.

He finished with the shirt and grabbed his jeans, stepping into them quickly and tucking his shirt down along the waist. "Yes it is," he said.

"Why?"

John shrugged. "I don't like people thinking it's okay to call you a freak. And maybe I can't get them to like you but I'm pretty sure I can get them to show you some damn respect at the very least. And if they still want to call you freak, fine, but they'll have to do it behind your back like they would to anyone else."

Sherlock chuckled, the roll of it causing John to smile as he finished with his zip and snagged a pair of socks. The clock was busy accusing him of being late with her arms bending right along the white face. Time seemed to get the best of him when he wasn't paying attention. 

"You're a hero to us all, John." Sherlock mused, pulling his red dressing gown around himself as he stepped out into the hall.

"Goddamn champion of justice," John joked as he found his shoes and slipped them on, following close behind Sherlock as he scraped his wallet and phone off the dresser. The wallet was fat with notes ready to splurge on a few rounds for the group. Everyone liked a generous man; he could spare the cash if it made a difference. "Want me to bring you anything back?" he asked, finding his coat on the hooks near the landing.

Sherlock leaned his head back, observing him upside-down from his supine position on the couch, hair still dripping along the arm of the furniture. "No. Will you be bringing anything back for yourself? A woman perhaps?"

"Not planning on it. Not that it wouldn't probably help a bit with the tabloid gossip being what it is. It's not really what tonight is about, though."

The detective nodded, smiling just slightly. "You look very smart," he observed.

John smirked and controlled the desire to pop his collar at the compliment. "Cheers. You going to text me all night long?"

"Probably."

"Right, well, that's something to look forward to at any rate." He leaned over into the room, tussling his friend's hair shortly, only half noticing the way the ends of the curls clung to his fingers. "I'll be home late."

Sherlock nodded, relaxing down among the cushions, remote in hand with a world of crap telly available for the night. John left the door open as he hurried down the stairs, bounding out into the street to hail a cab in hopes punctuality wasn't among the traits the boys from the Yard were wont to judge him for. Of all the nights to get caught up in idleness, it was not the best he could have chosen. 

Standing at the curb, John raised his hand high, waving to the boxy vehicle that veered close, obeying his call. To his side he felt a poke against his shoulder and heard the clearing of a man's throat. John turned around, seeing a smiling, well-dressed stranger with a familiar gleam in his eyes, and shook his head sternly.

"Sorry, no, no interviews," he said, waving his hands at him to help get the message across. Reporters, ironically, never seemed to understand spoken words alone. "No comments, no quotes, no anything. You want my opinions, read my blog."

The man continued to smile, inclining his head to him in greeting. "I have. I'm a huge fan of yours, Dr. Watson." The stranger offered him his hand to shake, his grip warm and firm as he accepted the gesture. "Don't worry, my presence has nothing to do with that tabloid bullshit. I can't believe they are still running with that rubbish."

"Ah… yeah. Thanks." John put his hand against the cab as it came to a stop, not entirely comfortable in the company of strangers. "I'm sort of in a hurry but—"

"Actually, I just wanted to let you know what you and Mr. Holmes were voted for in this year's 'Men of the Year' edition of _Man's Man_ Magazine and I was hoping to see if I could arrange for a photo shoot? I'd much rather pay you and your partner and get something we can all appreciate than go to some sleazeball, bush-crawling paparazzi."

John's throat went dry, his free hand balling into a fist as the other tugged on the handle of the cab. There was something in the way he said 'partner'; something about the cream of his shirt and the lavender of his tie and the well-styled fall of his hair. "We're not... we're _business_ partners," he clarified, eyes wide with his own unspoken fears.

The stranger put his hands up defensibly, taking a step back as he nodded slowly. "Sorry, sorry, right. Of course." He winked, lips curling into a crooked smile. "'Business' partners. Got it." 

John could literally hear the air-quotes.

He stared at him in dumb silence, his brain on a temporary hiatus. He got into the cab without another word, closing the door and sitting anxiously for a moment before the need to address the cabby to get him to the bar became apparent. He felt ill. He didn't want to think of what kind of publication _Man's Man_ was, didn't want to think of what was being so widely insinuated in even the more reputable papers. 

He got three numbers at the first bar and two more at the second. The guys from the Yard slapped him on the back and clinked their glasses against his in toasts to his lady-magnetism and charm. Just a couple of men out whinging about work, slamming down drinks, and talking about video games and women and John was one of them, just like them, no different in any way other than being the single most successful bachelor at the table who was going home with five numbers from five lovely women. Mr. Understanding Nice Guy Lady-killer John Watson, PhD.

He ignored the text alerts and single missed call. The lives of ordinary people demanded it and John was not strong enough to go against it.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was brilliant. In his coat, his gloves, his cashmere scarf, with his retractable pocket microscope and his manic, gleeful deductions full of bite and wit, Sherlock was at the top of his game with no glass ceiling above to stop him. Petty crime had never seen such a hit as a bored consulting detective driven to prove once more that he was everything he thought himself to be. This time no one could doubt him. It took one afternoon to solve the three small cases he was contractually obligated to solve. It whetted his appetite but could not satiate him. He grabbed every cold case file he could get his hands on and within a week had cleared out an entire drawer in a filing cabinet with a few arrests to accompany new answers. When he grew tired of sitting at home with files and details, he took on small-time robberies and domestic cases for the chance to shout at people and work among a crowd. The officers hated him, _god_ they hated him, but to John they smiled and waved and joked about Sherlock's snide and less amicable quirks. They asked John out for drinks and invited him to friendly dos and clapped him on the back for having the strength to put up with the man. John never heard anyone utter the word 'freak' so long as he was around and he was by Sherlock's side every step of the way. Instead, now and then, he heard the odd word 'lovers' whispered between the other officers—always as a whisper and always behind cupped hands.

Brilliant Boffin Holmes and Confirmed Bachelor John Watson made the papers with growing irregularly and the tabloids quite frequently. Candid shots of them shopping at Tesco together or smirking at crime scenes side by side often carried the caption " _Are They or Aren't They?!_ ". They even had their own celebrity couple name: Johnlock. John's blog often got comments from people thanking him and Sherlock for doing so much for the gay stereotype. John kept his new blog posts short, to the point, and concise and eventually turned off the ability to receive comments. Now he received e-mails instead.

Harry called and texted him a lot. His mother never asked but she always seemed to steer the conversation to Sherlock as though hoping to trigger a confession. John was often far too busy to talk very long to either. Calls from his dad he somehow always conveniently seemed to miss.

Paperwork, at the very least, gave John something to distract himself with. It was more tedious and dull than he had expected it to be, each case causing him several hours of forms to submit to Lestrade or whoever's jurisdiction they found themselves under. He rather enjoyed plopping a bold 'N/A' in a good deal of the more standardized sheets. He'd taken to carrying a dictaphone to get Sherlock's deductions as linear and correct as they had been at the time. The MP3s were often used as evidence or played for suspects to bring about confessions. Transcripts of them were still up to John to provide. He was seriously considering hiring it out though a certain someone had left him a pamphlet for a typing course. 

Life was good for all its oddities. So long as they were home, life was bliss. So long as the whispers and the cameras and the e-mails and the phone calls could be shut out, life was perfect.

And then there was Mahler. 

Eyes locked on the screen with Sherlock's voice playing over and over again in the same twenty-second span of a two minute rant, John hardly noticed when Sherlock entered their shared living space, nearly floating to his side on silent feet as he pressed his hands to his shoulders. John jumped only slightly, scowling at him with a turn of his head as he stopped the recording once more.

"Did you need something?" he asked, wary of his friend's bright eyes and smile.

Sherlock shook his head, one hand running its fingers along John's hair, delving down in the side swept, short strands and brushing against the grain. "Wanted to see if you'd be needing any of the hot water. Your hair's clean, though, and you smell nice. A quick shave for that stubble and a dash of cologne and you should be ready."

John held his breath to keep from stuttering over the casual touches, holding himself perfectly still to lessen his chances of leaning into his hands which usually teased or aided but hardly lingered or caressed. He felt the back of his friend's fingers trail down his cheek to his jaw, judging the harshness of his evening growth in needless assessment. All perfectly reasonable reasons to pet another human face or head but still so strangely tender from hands that did not normally reach out for such. John ducked just slightly away, feeling his face growing warm. "Ready for what exactly?"

"Mahler, John," Sherlock said as he stepped away, talking as he strode towards the windows with his hands firmly clasped behind his back. "I've asked Mrs. Hudson to pick up our suits for us from the cleaners. Yours were all old so I threw them out and had Mrs. Hudson go out and buy you a new one. Single breasted with a vest. You don't mind, do you? You look good in layers. Couldn't find that tie pin from the kidnapping case so I had to get you one from the shop. Square topaz gemstone--reminded me of toast. Should be fine even though Mrs. Hudson informs me mixing brown and black is frowned upon. Was it your idea to get her that Connie Prince colours book? Never seen her more pleased than getting a chance to dress you up. I think she rather suspects I'll let her have a go at my clothes next. Not likely; I've seen a few pages of that book of hers. She'll have me in pastels.”

John leaned back in his chair, half smirking at the idea of Sherlock in cyan while the rest of his brain tripped over the further details. He'd been listening to Sherlock talk on his dictaphone for too long, mixing past mystery with current involvement. "No, yeah… uh, that's fine... Thanks?" He wasn't entirely sure why he ended it as a question. He looked back at his computer screen, eying the clock for the first time that night.

"I thought dinner at the Royal Garden Hotel. I have reservations but if you would like something else we can cancel."

John's eyes were as large as their prices, poisonous thoughts making his mouth taste sour. "The Royal Ga—...A little, uh... conspicuous, don't you think? Dinner for two at a place like that? I mean—"

"People might talk," Sherlock finished for him. He looked at him flatly, the setting sun casting him in a warm glow, following every contour of his hair, his face, his neck. He frowned, brow low in consideration. "It still bothers you this much?" he asked, with little uncertainty behind it. John imagined his posture broadcasting very clearly the discomfort he felt.

He rubbed his palms against the denim of his thighs, eyes boring into the desk in an attempt to avoid the sting of the other's stare. "I just... don't like people getting the wrong idea."

"So if it was the right idea, it'd be okay?"

John froze, his left hand twitching. "Sorry… are you asking me out on a date?"

"I suppose so." Sherlock replied, hands gesturing to his sides in obvious acceptance. It wasn't obvious to John, though. Sherlock could say the damnedest things without even the slightest idea what it meant sometimes. The boyish innocence of his face made it doubtful he had even the slightest idea what the magnitude was of his words.

"A proper, _romantic_ date," John reiterated, expecting his friend's face to purse in distaste and his head to roll back in laughter. 

Sherlock nodded once, still smiling. "Yes," he said with a voice rich and thick.

John clench his jaw shut, his deep breath failing him as it caught on the way out, forcing a nervous cough from his throat. His heart was banging so strongly he could feel it in his toes. His body ached with the force of his pulse and he curled his fingers against his palms to try and squeeze the pooling blood back out of them. "Sorry, …no," he said at last, hating the way the words tasted.

Curiosity made his gaze steal towards the window over the top of his laptop, his body cold despite the rush of blood that pounded in his ears. Sherlock looked... lost. The nuances and finite aspects of his expression were too raw to inspect, easier to link to similar times when his deductions were failing him, when his careful measures were falling through, when a block of flats and twelve innocent people were destroyed in a sudden and avoidable catastrophe; lost and undone. "Oh," he said, turning away, body moving in anxious leans as he shifted and puzzled. "Well, right then... Always something..." Something missed, something overlooked, something forgotten—yes, yes and yes. "It's just... well, I thought... Mixed signals?"

John would have loved to have had that been it. It would have been so much easier to have just said he didn't feel that way, that the distant kiss they had so fairly never mentioned had been a one-off and meant nothing, to pretend of the many reasons why he always chose Sherlock in the end had nothing to do with the way it felt to be needed and respected by such a human being as him. So much easier but only for himself. For a man who prided himself on being right, on observing everything around him and very seldom being wrong, for that same man who had never felt loved, he deserved much more than a coward's response. John lowered his eyes, feeling his chest fill with air and making himself conscious of every breath, every rise and fall till everything became rhythmic and even and far more likely to obey. One more look at the crestfallen face and that careful concentration would be undone, though. He looked to the laptop screen instead, falling lower to the keyboard and the crumbs caught between the keys.

"No. You... you probably got it right. Sherlock. It's just no."

"Alright. That's... Sorry to have made things awkward." Sherlock paced closer to the window for a moment, drawing back towards his chair until pulled again by invisible strings to his spot along the curtains. Sherlock was a gloriously dexterous man but could so quickly deteriorate into an uncoordinated mess. "As friends, then. If the Royal Garden Hotel is too much then we can go somewhere else. Or nowhere. I'm not especially hungry."

John shook his head, "No, I mean... No to everything. I can't go tonight."

Sherlock was very quiet. John poked at a few keys, typing in some nonsense word to fill the void, trying not to spell 'Sherlock' even as his fingers plunked out the first four letters.

"You'd said you would go with me before," the lonely baritone said.

"That was before."

"Before what?"

John had never wanted Mrs. Hudson to walk in uninvited so much in his entire life. Anything to give him distance and let him stand without the certainty he'd sink back against the stiffness of his leg. "I just can't. Alright? We're too much in the public eye and I don't want to be reading about our night out in the daily paper."

"And that's more important, is it?"

"Don't, Sherlock." John made himself look, forcing the sternness in his eyes to hold still against the hurt confusion in his friend's. If it weren't for the hint of accusation and anger burning behind the ice blue gaze, John might have thought the expression were forced to play him. "I'm serious. Look, this—whatever this is—isn't just about me being okay with it or understanding it or accepting it. This isn't even about me being okay with my friends or my family knowing that this is even a possibility. Because of you, because of the media and everything that surrounds you, this is now about me having to be okay with _everyone_ and all of their assumptions being given the hint of truth that they are so desperate for. I'm not doing that. _We're_ not. "

Sherlock looked away, shifting and pacing with strange staccato. He turned to the fireplace, fingers trilling over the mantle as he seemed to dance between one thought and the other, mouth working on two different sets of words without the distraction of sound to muddy them. The more frazzled he seemed, the safer John felt. A distracted Sherlock might miss the small admissions and fail to call him on their certainty. A perplexed detective might not pry into where the line was drawn between friends and whatever words best described what it sometimes felt they were moving towards.

He seemed to settle on something, though, and turned the space between the desk and the fireplace into a minefield. He moved closer to the chair, fingers splaying against the arm, as he smiled just slightly, that small, manipulative little grin that could pretend to forget everything else that had come before. "I love you, John," he said with a certainty that made John numb. He extended his hand towards him, a simple gesture with his heart on his sleeve. "Will you please come out with me tonight?"

John trembled, the shiver raising the hair along his arms. "... That's not fair, Sherlock."

"I have asked you for nothing but this one thing."

"I'm sorry." And he was. Under so many other circumstances he'd have not given it a second thought—the admission of love, yes, but the request for his presence, no. It was like canceling Christmas; some things were just done regardless of personal beliefs or feelings. Some things just were. 

Sherlock kept his hand out, head tilted in bewilderment. "I said I love you," he repeated, as though the words could open doors.

John hated feeling like a marionette pulled along on Sherlock's whims. "Do you want a prize?" he asked, failing to keep his frustration in check. "You don't automatically get everything you want just because you say that."

His fingers curled in against his empty grasp, arm falling to his side as he stood column-like with his eyes unwavering in their hollow stare. "You know it makes no different to me if you do not feel the same but I do rather expect at the very least that nothing should change for the worse. You would tell me if I had done something wrong, yes?"

"Nothing's wrong, Sherlock," John assured him, trying to look hopeful and failing in the attempt. Anything less than stoic grief was an insult to the pain worn naked across Sherlock's face. 

It was a lifetime ago that he had felt sure he would have thrown everything away for the chance to spend another day in the detective's light, arms holding close to feel his beating heart and living breath against his own skin, lips parted against his lips and unashamed of their shared anatomy.

In his wildest fantasies he was brave enough to stop caring and seize what instinctively he could not stop himself from growing closer to. The reality was painfully different. For all the want and need to stay by Sherlock's side, John Watson was terrified.

And for all the want and need to be wanted and needed, Sherlock stood silently, broken, in the center of the Great Baker Street Minefield.


	7. Chapter 7

The hardest part about saying ‘ _no_ ’ was knowing Sherlock would forgive him for it. They had no qualifications, no stipulations, and very few expectations. They lived and worked together because it made them both happy; everything by choice and with implied consent in the invitation. Some things never needed to be asked and rarely needed to be spoken of. Honest truths could be observed without words to explain them—like the fact that Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson or that John, unconditionally, loved him too.

But love wasn't everything.

The suit Mrs. Hudson had picked out for him was very nice indeed. John couldn't imagine too many places he'd need it for, black tie events not often part of his work or social scope. The stiff white collared shirt with its ivory buttons looked very smart with the gold stitching and pale taupe pattern of the vest Sherlock had insisted on. He was glad for a proper tie and not a bow tie. The black jacket and trousers had all been tailored. John knew he shouldn't be surprised Sherlock had the perception to map out his measurements—he'd at least heard of him doing it once before—but the personal touch and attention to detail still made John's chest ache. He left the lot of it on their hangers, slipping them into his wardrobe with the protective plastic covering pulled back in place. 

He made himself ignore the shower water running in the adjoining room and forget the minutes as they passed by; four, then eight, then fifteen. Close quarters meant he knew how long the average Sherlock shower took. He forced his mind not to imagine the tall, pale man melting under the scolding spray, forehead to the cold tile or crouched at the bottom of the tub where the water felt like rain. He made himself forget the absence of steam when at last the door was opened again. He stared at his computer instead, sitting cross-legged on his bed, pretending to work and that these things didn't matter. He reread the same paragraph five times, comprehending less and less of what he himself had written. He gave up on it. He sat simply staring, thinking harder about the designs of the icons on his desktop then he had ever contemplated anything so benign before.

John wasn't surprised to find himself somewhat startled by the sounds of footsteps approaching his door. He shifted on the mattress, idle fingers finding random keys once again as he tried not to watch Sherlock peek inside to be absolutely certain he hadn't changed his mind. John hadn't. John hadn't even been using his mind since he'd found refuge in his room after Mrs. Hudson's far too tardy delivery interruption.

Sherlock cleared his throat, hovering awkwardly in the doorway. His shoes were shiny and his trousers pressed to a perfect crease. "I don't think Scotland Yard had considered how lucky they were to be getting so hard a worker as you," he said. It was hard to tell if he was being passive aggressive or attempting to lighten the mood with a bit of praise. John glanced up at his simple smile and felt sure it must be the latter. The smile, though, for all its efforts, did very little to hide his deep disappointment.

Sherlock looked good, though not dissimilar from normal. Still a single button jacket, solid in black with black button. The shirt and tie were both black as well with nothing but the lighting and the tailor's fine skill to define the limits of his lithe silhouette. The monochrome man looked a bit like his own shadow but for his eyes which never could settle on any one color themselves. Sherlock's less than elegant attire, most likely chosen for its simplicity and unassuming style, made every stunning facet of his face stand out above the trim, colorless body. He'd dressed himself in his own unique beauty and John bit his lip not to tell him.

Sherlock's long fingers traced the doorknob as he stood, watching John with his usual level of discernment. He raked the fingers of his other hand through his hair, the side part already falling closed over his forehead. "I'll be at the Royal Garden Hotel till seven," he said.

John nodded, not to be so rude as to ignore him. "I thought you weren't hungry." he said.

"I'm not."

John winced, teeth digging into his cheeks. "...Sherlock, I'm not coming."

"I know."

"So, don't... What, you're just going to wait all night for me to show up?"

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, not in apprehension but with unconcerned acceptance. It wasn't uncertainty but a casual ' _of course_ ' in the way he tilted his head just so, startling eyes judging the ceiling before settling back in contest with John's.

"Sherlock, don't," the soldier warned. He bit the anger back, challenging Sherlock with a glare that would accept no grand performances. Suffering an actor with a flair for the dramatic was far outside his tolerance. 

Sherlock seemed to know it as well. He breathed in deep, hands buried in his pockets as he leaned back against the door frame. "You can tell me you're not coming, John, but you can't tell me not to wait."

"You can't guilt me into coming and that is so low of you to try." 

"I'm not trying to, John. Maybe if you tried _listening_ more, you'd discern more than just what you _hear_." The detective did not scowl with his insult though the jab was well intended and received. The smile forgotten, his face seemed only capable of looking tired and worn. It made him look younger, not older as it did with most men John knew. Sherlock wore the sadness of a man nearly half his age under the reluctant acceptance of a man twice it. "I am going to wait," he said. "I will always wait. Because you can't come if I don't. That's how it works, isn't it? One of us has to stand still or we'll both be left to wander."

Sherlock's voice caught in John's throat like honey, muting him despite his efforts to swallow. He hesitated to speak though he had to say something, finally conceding to the anger. "I'm not lost, Sherlock."

"I never said you were. However, you know where to find me." Like a last hope, Sherlock gave one final smile before turning and walking out, his footsteps echoing down the stairs as he left 221B for the night.

John slammed the lid of his laptop shut then opened it so he could slam it shut again. There was a perverse pleasure in making the machine pay for the mess it had been a bystander to. He'd have thrown it if he'd had any confidence it would be alright afterward. He needed the computer as much as Mrs. Hudson's walls didn't need another hole in them. 

He set the abused machine on the bedside table, leaving it closed with no real intention of working any longer into the night. He couldn't focus on work if he wanted to. All he could think of were the blue—no, green—no, grey—no, pale and every cool color eyes staring back at him with the best of intentions and worst of inclinations. And worst of all, the hardest pill to swallow, was that he had started it all; it was entirely John's fault. He'd been the first to bend, the one who took the nagging question 'What if?' and put it into action. 

He'd kissed Sherlock. 

With one, stupid, impulsive, regrettable action he had told his best friend that he had entertained the possibility of stretching that friendship into something more and had come away with the conclusion that it could be okay. It didn't matter that the kiss had been terrible, hardly a kiss at all except for the fact that it happened across their joined lips. John had presented a long denied possibility into the very heart of their relationship like a Semtex block waiting for a sniper's shot. It had really only been a matter of time. John had no doubt that Sherlock loved him as he had never loved another human being before. And Sherlock, never stumped by John, had only acted exactly as John feared he someday would. 

They could have lived their whole lives in love and never had to question it or define it. They could have just had one of those odd relationships that defied all conventional understanding of what two people could be to each other. But John's kiss had broken that, said a chance existed to _be_ defined and forgo the need for anything more than each other. John was not a celibate man, sex was part of his expectations from a healthy, romantic relationship, and he'd told Sherlock through teeth and flesh that he had been willing to accept him in that role. 

Once a possibility, always a possibility. They were still the same two people and every moment since he'd come home had only fit into that perfect description of what they knew of their accord. The steps towards Sherlock's deduction were simple, elementary, as easy to follow as two plus two. Because for Sherlock it was that simple, just two constants reaching a logical conclusion. John's problem was full of variables, complex orders of operations, imaginary figures and spanned the length of a football field. Falling in love was so much easier than managing the repercussions.

He stood up from his bed, rubbing his face hard in the way that made his mother warn him of premature wrinkles. He didn't care about wrinkles. She'd also warned him his face would get stuck like that if he kept pulling faces and that certainly hadn't been true. With heavy limbs and a heavier heart he heaved himself to his feet, walking through the mess of a kitchen with muted agitation at the man who hadn't bothered to put his ears in a covered container. John half wished he could remember what exactly the experiment was for but could recall quite clearly the conversation about not leaving body parts out in the open. The conversation hadn't made it into the Mind Palace, then, apparently. John threw a towel over them to at least save Mrs. Hudson the sight were she to come up. Years in med school, the army, and the flat had more or less desensitized John himself. Bodies were evidence and they were clues and only sometimes were they allowed to be people. He didn't want to think about Mary somehow being a part of Sherlock's macabre collection of specimens. Even he would know better. Molly would never be so cruel at least.

He would have married her—Mary. Had she not died, even knowing how it all began and how it all ended, he would still have married her. He didn't long for that relationship as he felt sure he might and he rarely dreamed of her, but they had been happy and he liked who he was around her. She played into his fantasy of married life perfectly without being boring. It would have been short-lived but it would have been okay. He did not wish things were different, though. Moran's decision had made all the tough choices for him and with a coward's appreciation he was glad to no longer be caught between the right-wrong choice and the wrong-right one.

The dishes needed doing. Someone had left the bread out after breakfast with the plastic bag untied. There was a stain against the grout lines—blood, perhaps, or jam—that needed a good scrubbing before Mrs. Hudson found out. John would rather have been sitting in a cab on the way to dinner, listening to reiterations on why the term ' _elevator music_ ' was never to be used to describe anything of value and debating whether to share a starter in order to make more room for dessert. Not if it was a date, though—as friends, with the public looking the other way, then and only then. If Sherlock's hand were to try to touch his, if with a pleased grin he tried to be kinder, tried to be ordinary under the scrutiny of all of London, John would have to pull away. The hand that had reached towards him before had at least done so in private. That sort of hurt did not belong on newsstands. 

John wasn't gay. None of the women who came before were shields for his masculinity, none of the loves he'd loved before were false in their pretenses. One love did not define his sexuality as a whole. But the world loved to pigeonhole and simplify and stereotype till reality was what they defined it as and nothing could defend the truth. There was nothing wrong with being gay, his own sister was gay, but there was something painfully wrong with being labeled something he wasn't. John believed firmly in the fact that people didn't choose to be gay or straight—they were born that way. Biology and chemistry were scientific measures to which attraction could be studied in a way love never could be. If asexuals existed so did bisexuals, surely, as was the trend with one extreme advocating the other, every phobia needing its philia. For every black and white there were surely shades of grey as hormones and brain function differed in each individual. Regardless of the many nuances, homosexuality was real with natural causes just like eye color and the sound of one's voice, undeserving of its stigma. It wasn't a choice to be gay, and so he could never _be_ gay. Gay wasn't who one slept with, it was about attraction and arousal. Never in his own life did John ever feel any form of attraction to another man; not in his youth, not in his adolescence, not as an adult, not once in all his life did he ever have a doubt that he was attracted to women. John was a breast man with a more than fair appreciation for arse and legs. Stonking great big tits and a well-groomed fanny were the subject of all his masturbatory fantasies and made up 10% of his hard drive. Sherlock was not a biological possibility, he was a choice, a conscious decision to go against his sexual identity. He never chose to love him but to become lovers was a far different story. The heart he loved was in a body he wanted without lust. That in itself was beautiful—beautiful and enough for friendship but not romance.

It wasn't impossible to conceive of—surely not for the mess he'd already made from it. There had been several girls in John's mature years he hadn't fancied at first but grew to be very fond of. Moles that were hideous could become cute and snout-like noses could be charming. Just being a woman had never been the only qualification for whether he was up for it. Being beautiful was a sure bet on a physical level but personality could forgive almost any 'flaw'. He'd never had a failure with any of the less-than-perfect women who had turned first impressions into regrettable shortsightedness. Attraction went much further than physical and though the thought of so much as kissing another man filled John with slight repulsion, the memory of kissing Sherlock made him wish he'd done it better.

Sherlock wasn't just a man. Sherlock had overtaken John's expectations for what his gender was capable of and become simply a benchmark for what humanity could be. Sherlock had in many ways transcended gender by being so otherworldly as to be nearly indescribable. Biologically, there was only so much that could differentiate him from the rest of their species but the mind that called all the rest transport really and truly did make John's pulse race.

He leaned against the counter, eyes scanning a table that was a mess of books, files, notepads, microscopes, scalpels, test tubes, glass beakers and more that he'd either never known or could not recall the names of. This, the well-ordered chaos, was going to be the rest of his life whether he chose to kiss Sherlock again someday or not. He was a beautiful man; it would hardly be hardship. It also wasn't the sort of relationship you just walked away from or that went back to what it was if it all went to shit.

The kitchen could wait. John needed something to numb him so completely that he wouldn't have to think. He popped open the fridge and grabbed a beer, cracking open the top as he walked back to the room of memories to plop himself firmly in sight with the television. The cartoon channel offered bright colors, high-pitched voices, and plenty of absurdities to make him forget he was a forty year-old man going through a mid-life crisis. It served its purpose. He chuckled a few times. He was proud of himself for not getting shitfaced though it was more a short supply of beer than any measure of self-control to be praised. In truth he spent over an hour sat there, mildly enjoying himself before Mrs. Hudson's hurried footfalls on the steps leading up to their flat made him pull himself out of the self-contained fog. 

"John!" She hugged her dressing gown closed over her nighty, landline in her hand, face almost as white as the cotton surrounding her. "John, he's not answering his mobile!"

John stood up from the couch, face scrunched in confusion as he reached out to grasp her shoulder, trying to calm her as she trembled slightly. "Who, Sherlock? I'm here; what is it?"

She shook her head, a worried whimper escaping her lips. "It's the Royal Albert Hall! There's… oh, there's been an explosion! It's all over the news and I've tried calling him—"

She kept on talking but John had stopped listening. He grabbed his mobile from the desk and phoned Sherlock, listening to the ring on his end while imagining the ring-tone he knew by heart ringing on the other. It went to voice-mail. He tried again as he wrestled his coat from the hooks, using his shoulder to manage the phone while his arms and hands slipped it on. Voice-mail. He cursed as he hung up, pausing only for a second in his glance at his mobile to notice he himself had missed a call, not from Sherlock but from the same strange number that had called him several times before. It didn't matter. Getting to the Royal Albert Hall was the only thing that mattered.

John grabbed Mrs. Hudson by the shoulders, steering her towards the sofa. "If he calls you, you tell him to call me straight away, okay? I'm going out to look for him. Soon as I've got him, I'll call you."

"Oh, John..." Her lip continued to quiver and he shook his head, finger raised in warning.

"No, none of that. He's fine. I'm just going to get him. Probably playing in the rubble looking for clues; you know, Sherlock. Just sit and keep trying to call him. Everything is going to be okay."

Mrs. Hudson nodded weakly as John tore out of the flat, flying down the stairs like a great wind.

Of all the nights for things to become entertaining.


	8. Chapter 8

John didn't bother counting out the bank notes he pushed into the cabby's hand. He knew it would be enough, most likely more than enough, and any excess was well worth the man's efforts in getting him as close as he could to the sirens, fire engines, police men, and general chaos. John regretted not bringing his gun or his police ID but was far from willing to let that stop him ducking under the yellow tape and making a run for it. 

No calls from Mrs. Hudson. No calls from Sherlock. No calls from Lestrade. John was less surprised about the last one. Lestrade would be busy, he'd have an ass-ache of things to call together. These sorts of instances were like the Sherlock equivalent of a Bat-signal so the need to call them in was almost nonexistent. Not at this point, even if they somehow didn't show. Rescue would be the top priority and then investigation. A full concert hall of patrons and musicians, employees running down aisles and sitting in booths had just had a bomb go off inside. There would be casualties. That was as far as John would allow his mind to wander, engaging all other thought in the push and pull of his muscles and tendons to make him run faster towards the teams of investigators and away from the crowd control officers in hot pursuit. He'd ran in the middle of a bullet storm for the trenches before and this felt no different to his lungs and pulsing heart. He'd outran the shots that night and he was going to outrun the pavement walkers now. 

The exterior of the building looked intact. Small bomb, then. Intended to take lives rather than do general damage. Possible murder motive rather than symbolic terrorist act. John cringed at how automatic it was becoming to think in that way. He'd strived for it, pleased himself with the occasional correct conclusions, entertained that he could keep up with Sherlock someday if he paid close attention and learned from him the art of seeing. He didn't want to infer anything in this instance, though. He wanted to see like an ordinary man and only accept for truth that was plain and real in front of him.

Like the ambulance by which Lestrade was standing, shaking his head at the cloth-covered body as it was loaded onto the vehicle. Even at a distance of several yards he was not hard to pick out. The DI couldn't ignore the shouting and running and looked over at John, surprise on his grave face as he recognized the source of the commotion.

"Greg!"

Lestrade waved to the officers, one arm out to accept John towards his team. "Hold up, he's with us! Haven't any of you lot read the paper? He's John Watson for Christ's sake!"

John didn't stop running despite the fact that his pursuers seemed less interested now. He needed to see into the ambulance, needed to talk to Lestrade, needed to hear everything about what was happening. He slowed to a halt, one hand over his chest as he struggled to breath, hearing his heartbeat in his head. He tried to force out words, every phrase coming out as a wheeze as his eyes scanned the covered body on the stretcher.

"Jesus, John. You alright?" Lestrade asked, stepping back to give him air, bending down to see his face. 

John shook his head, feeling the burn in his body from the use of muscles he hadn't needed to push that hard in ages. He was getting too old for this. Not there yet, but certainly feeling it. He pointed to the covered body, gasping for the pause to speak. "Sherlock," he managed, still choking.

Lestrade nodded, pointing over towards the building. "Up there, probably. Couldn't keep him from rubble crawling if I cuffed him to the car. Probably just use the car to clear the rubble for him." He rubbed at the back of his neck. "Glad you're here. I can't spare the manpower to keep him out of trouble."

John stared unblinking at the Detective Inspector for a minute, swallowing a few more breaths as his heart rate settled to a heavy clanging against his ribs rather than a techno bass beat on high. "Sherlock's doing _what_?"

"Investigating. Would hardly sit still long enough for the medical crews to clear him before he—"

John was going to kill him. He waved Lestrade to stop as he started walking in the direction he'd pointed, following behind crews and at times dodging them as he approached the doors to the concert hall. He followed in the direction of the chaos inside to the floor seating where it was very hard to miss the wrecked chairs and charred upholstery remains piled and set aside towards the far left. The wall of balcony seats beside it was missing as well. John hated that he couldn't recall where their seats had been. He stepped aside as emergency crews ran past with another body on a stretcher. Casualties indeed. A sold out venue and for the whole of the left side only the cheap seats up top seemed to have been spared by the blast. The horror of it was lessened only slightly by the sight of a tall man in an all-black suit dusted in gypsum walking along a row of seats like a pussy-footing cartoon criminal.

John was still going to kill him. He worked out his route through the chairs to intercept, trying to remain out of the way of people working hard to save lives but not feeling especially in the mood to vault over rows of seats to make the shortest dash. Sherlock didn't even seem to notice when he walked up beside him and grabbed him hard by the arm.

"Answer your damn phone!" he shouted, wrenching him lower, right in his face, his wide eyes unable to shirk from John's piercing glare.

Sherlock looked elated—hardly the reaction John had been hoping for—as he recognized his friend, his attention snatched away from the case for a moment. "Ah, good, you're here," he said. His face was lightly cut from shrapnel, his hair a complete disarray. The black suit had picked up every bit of light colored debris. He smelled somehow of dust, smoke, and John's own cologne. 

John squeezed his arm tighter. "Of course I'm here! Mrs. Hudson couldn't get hold of you! None of us could! You have her worried sick, Sherlock! Christ, I nearly had a heart attack trying to get to you, you selfish sodding bastard!"

Sherlock shrugged, his eyes again torn away by the sway of red balcony curtains and the unsettled lighting units. "I had my phone set to silent for the performance. Must not have switched it back. Been a bit preoccupied."

"Call her. Now." John dug his phone out of his pocket and pressed it to Sherlock's hand. "Won't take but a second. I'll get my bearings and then I want to hear everything, you got that?"

Sherlock looked far less than pleased but closed his hand around the phone and dialed back to their flat. Despite his at times contrary disposition, he seemed to know best when the argument wasted more time than simple compliance. John watched him only for the minute he needed to see that the call went through before allowing his eyes to wander away from him and over the surrounding devastation.

Moran was responsible for this. Like a sixth sense, John just _knew_ that this was personal. Sherlock's wounds weren't anything near severe enough to have come from the blast area. In a round room, the blast pattern would radiate out in an easily calculated circle. John turned, looking up at the right side balcony seats. Great view of the orchestra, perfect view of the explosion right across the floor.

"Alright, where do you want me to begin?" Sherlock asked from behind him, phone call ended with his usual briskness.

John pointed up at the balcony. "You were sitting there?" he asked.

Sherlock nodded, moving to stand beside him. "First level balcony. Mycroft reserved the whole box so I was alone to enjoy the performance. Regrettably my eyes were closed when the bomb went off though it was hardly to be missed. I take it you've come to the same conclusion I have."

"If you're thinking this is Moran's idea of entertainment, then yes. But how—"

"Moran is far from a genius but I suppose with my minimal efforts it still didn't take much of one to deduce our actions. It was my brother who bought the tickets and Mrs. Hudson who went on my behalf to purchase the evening wear but both are still very easily linked back to me. He's rather serious about this. I'd hardly given him this kind of credit. He's a sniper—straight forward and simple. It would seem the Colonel is full of surprises."

John paused, a certain detail not having been impressed on him before. "Colonel? Moran is military?"

"How else does one become a trained marksman?" Sherlock vaulted over a line of seats and walked towards the blast center again—or rather as close as they allowed him to with their efforts of retrieval still underway. He stood on the chairs to get a better look while John struggled to follow. "Unlike Moriarty, there's no clue here I can detect, no hidden message I'm meant to find. I've been over it several times and there is no part in the music which would suggest a meaningful interruption and all the dead and dying people in the blast area were common enough. Still having their records sent but by all appearances this was just for show."

"For show or as punishment?" John asked, ignoring the parts that belittled human casualties for the time being. 

Sherlock paused, head tilting in appraisal. "Interesting idea. His communication with me would suggest he doesn't mind so much that we have been rather quiet. Far as I can tell, I didn't know anyone who suffered the bomb."

He could only really ignore it so long. John scowled up at the man who did not need the several additional feet of height added by the chair he stood on. "They're still innocent people, some of who are dead now because of this. If this is linked to us then we have got to stop it."

"He must have assumed you'd be here. This sort of event would have caused you distress."

" _Would have_?" John grabbed him by the trouser leg, giving it a tug in dismay. "Sherlock, maybe you can't hear it but this _does_ distress me! People have died and all we seem to be able to figure out is that somehow this is our responsibility."

"It's the price of being alive, John."

John bit his cheeks, the truth in that still hard to swallow. "Yeah, well, does London know that? We can't just—"

"Just until he's dead." Sherlock hopped down from the chair, steering John again through the maze of red seating towards an unoccupied aisle, letting go of his shoulders as they walked back towards the exits. "Mycroft assures me they're working on it. It is, quite obviously, an issue of national security as well as personal interest."

"So, hold on, he could find Moriarty but he can't find Moran?"

Sherlock shook his head, a small, dimly remorseful smile on his face. "No, Mycroft didn't simply _find_ Moriarty. Moriarty _wanted_ to be caught by him. All part of his master plan, remember? Moran isn't playing that game. He'll use everything Moriarty left him with to his advantage and stay well-hidden until he's ready to come out."

They both stood aside as another stretcher ran past. John pretended not to hear the praising tone of Sherlock's voice, the way he seemed to miss the insane man who had put them both through so much. For a man who collected enemies the way most people did friends, it made some amount of sense for him to mourn the loss of his best one. John, on the other hand, wished he knew where he'd been buried so he could piss on his grave.

Sherlock leaned over the counter of the snack bar and stole a bag of crisps, tossing it back to John as he straightened and walked towards the large doors held open towards the outside. John didn't even bother reprimanding him. He was hungry, the building was a mess, and if anyone wanted to send the detectives a bill for the snack, they could bloody well try. 

"So what now?" he asked, licking the crisp flavor from his thumb. Snacks generally meant a long night, even if he'd only acquired the one bag for him.

"I managed to get a few samples of the debris before the authorities arrived and made me keep back. I need to see what kind of explosive was used. My guess is Moran used remotely detonated Semtex—he's not very original after all. Could be something we can trace, however. Worth a look."

John nodded, keeping up with his longer strides as they walked outside the controlled area into the congested streets of onlookers. "Barts then?" he asked, following close by as they crossed between the stalled cars. "Better if you could do it at the flat, though. Could get a take-away if you skipped dinner. Not so sure they'd welcome a burger and chips near the lab's sensitive equipment."

"Barts is better for going over multiple samples. Takes less time."

"Guess we can just stop off and get something on the way," John said, trying to remember the eateries nearby as he cast a glance at the buildings around them. Something small within walking distance would do; save the cab ride for later.

Sherlock sighed, his speech on digestion and brain work not needing to be repeated thanks to the look on his face. John walked into him, bumping him pointedly with his shoulder.

"You can do lab work on a full stomach. Let's save the row for some other night, alright?"

Scowling, Sherlock dusted off his ruined suit in agitation. "The fact that you think my eating habits are worth a row is insulting."

"Fine, be insulted, but do it later. Dinner now." John felt for his phone but found it missing, memory at least retracing its last known location. Rather than ask for it back he helped himself to Sherlock's pockets, finding the bulge against his left breast. Sherlock didn't bother to dissuade him, at least slowing down long enough to allow John to pull it out without the hazard of walking so quickly backwards. It ended up being Sherlock's own phone but it hardly mattered; John only wanted to send a text to Lestrade to let him know they were following a lead and out of his hair.

Whatever he had expected as phone wallpaper was not at all what he received, though thinking on it he shouldn't have been too surprised. It was John's own face, scowling into the phone's camera with deadpan eyes. He remembered that day. Freshly shaven, ready for his first case in years, laughing to tears near the landing, gunshots and tackles. It was the companion to his infamous arse photo. He'd never actually seen it.

He typed out the text, glancing up so as not to walk blindly into anything. "You know, it is rather insulting that you remember me as some nagging, disapproving jerk."

Sherlock chuckled. "He said with disapproval having just nagged at me from the moment he arrived." He smirked down at John, a mischievous little grin on his wounded face.

John pursed his lips. Touché. "Well, like I said, you scared the shit out of us. You get a case and you forget all about everyone who might be worried about you. Call next time."

"Come with me next time."

John flinched slightly, still sensitive to the sting of their much earlier discussion. Faced with the mayhem, he felt stupid for not going. Faced with everything else, he still knew it was the only option. He glanced up at Sherlock's face, the tiny cuts along his cheeks and the invested stare as his mind worked in its peculiar ways. Even completely disheveled and wrecked of his once perfect appearance, Sherlock managed to look refined and elegant. The smell was all wrong though and persisted like a nagging itch in the back of John's mind. Next time he wanted to be beside him, scratched up and suit in ruins. But only—with patient certainty—only once he knew where they stood. There simply wasn't room for ambiguity with their reputations on the line.

"Yeah," John said at last, looking down at the pavement. "Maybe next time."

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement, too keen to miss the wilt in his voice. "Well, if not, it's alright. I don't mind being alone."

"Alone. Right." 

It happened very suddenly and felt very odd. Like the burst of a balloon, John felt his perception blow open, aware in an instant what his friend meant by luminous. He'd never really experienced that ' _ah-ha_!' moment before. He didn't like it—not in this case. It made his chest ache with empathy as his thoughts laid out in front of him what it had been that had warranted that unsettled feeling. If he was right, the degree of sentiment was far above what he would expect from the man but childish enough to befit him. John cleared his throat, pushing his hands deep in his coat pockets. "You're wearing cologne," he said finally, eyes watching the empty alley as they took a quick pass down one in following Sherlock's mental SatNav.

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, well, it completes the look, doesn't it?"

"You're wearing _my_ cologne," John continued.

There was a longer pause, the taller man raising his shoulders again as he continued to look ahead. "I just used what was near the sink."

"No, you didn't." John licked his lips, preparing to look like an utter idiot if he was wrong. Somehow he felt sure he wasn't. "You said your eyes were closed when the bomb went off. And you're wearing my cologne. You were sitting there, alone in the dark, listening to the music, smelling me as if I was there with you with no other senses to tell you otherwise, weren't you?"

There was a slight falter in the man's steps and a rise of red on his ears as Sherlock paused and turned a proud smile to his companion. "Your deduction skills are coming along very well," he said. For all his smiling, his eyes were still lacking in their usual splendor.

John placed his hand against his friend's stomach to stall him, then turned to take hold of his dark lapels. With more guidance than force, he gently pressed Sherlock's back to the brick wall, far outside the streetlamp's range in the dark of the alleyway. His pale eyes looked down on him inquisitively though John lost them as he closed his own and lifted up on his toes to claim his lips. The fullness of his bottom lip, the bow and arch of the top one, lightly parted against his breath as he faltered into a return. The lips that ushered deductions faster than most men could think were warm and so very plunderable, his freshly shaven skin soft against John's nighttime stubble. Sherlock bent his neck to assist, his own hands tentative in their light touch against John's hips, moments passing like hours as action upon action fell in false sequence. 

The inexperienced kiss was halting and unsure, Sherlock imitating John's lead with every tilt and lean, noses dancing and angles skewed as attempts were countered with mirrored reply. John placed his hands on either side of his face and held him still with a firm caress, forcing Sherlock to stop mimicking and dissecting, making him simply _let_ him and bloody well be kissed. He deserved a better kiss than the one John'd left him with. The spark that sent his mind reeling before was still there, brighter than ever behind his closed eyes as John allowed his adoration to move him, let himself focus solely on the unique wonder that was his feelings for Sherlock all bundled up, shaken out, and pressed to condense till even the little things were a concentrated point of love for the man who dreamed of him in the dark.

John pulled away, sinking to his heels, letting his hands slide down his face. The hands on his hips kept him from taking a step back.

"Did that one mean anything?" whispered Sherlock's husky voice.

"It means what am I going to do about you?" John swallowed, eyes darting to either side, checking the alley was still vacant. He pushed back against his hold and put in the needed distance, rubbing his arms nervously though he felt warm through and through. "Sherlock, ah... maybe not next time even but... sometime… maybe... I mean, please don't resent me— _Christ,_ don't resent me—but if you're going to wait anyway... I'm just saying there's a chance. That when things aren't so... that maybe the friends thing won't be... It is, I mean... God..."

Sherlock nodded, leaning his head back against the brick. "I understand."

"Do you?" John worried his bottom lip, still feeling the tingle of their kiss dancing under his teeth. "Because I don't want... I need us to be friends." Silently he chastised himself for the kiss, same mistake, different reason. He really was an idiot. But no one had ever loved him like Sherlock claimed to; as he showed. Like everything else, Sherlock brought the child out in him, including the lovesick teenage boy who lit up like a light at every smile a girl ever graced him with. Everything felt young and new again with the same thrill and excitement that dating had lost in the monotony. Even the dread of being caught and facing his worst nightmares made his senses sing. Reason and rational thought shouted obscenities at him in the moments of clarity but in the middle of a mind-fog generated by a Sherlock-induced cloud of passion, it was hard to see straight let alone act it.

Sherlock looked down at him, straight-faced and sincere with eyes that refused to look aside. "John, I can go my whole life never knowing a lover but I have already proven that I cannot go even three months as a dead man without wanting you. Friends is fine. Friends is simply the least of what I want us to be, anything more being just a bonus and anything less being intolerable."

"Yeah, but you love me."

"And I loved you before." Sherlock pushed off the wall, straightening his jacket as he continued to stare at John, eyes boring into him, intimately honest. "If I could change one thing, John, it would not be that you loved me as well but rather that you understood that the absence of your love does not make me regret the presence of my own. I only bothered to say anything because it is at this time that we have an option of become more that we will not have later."

John licked his lips, caught in his stare. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I haven't been back very long and the threat of Moran has kept things from falling back into their comfortable places. Before this, we were friends and becoming more would have been awkward. After this, we'll return to being friends, reestablishing those roles and the boundaries of our relationship as we are currently working towards. It is only right now that there is any flexibility as the threat of death and danger looms very real and very close and we're still readjusting to being together again." Sherlock began walking, his steps long and purposeful as he took them out of the alley and onto the street for only a moment before ducking down another side street. "If we miss this junction, that isn't to say it will never happen. But the likelihood will certainly decrease in proportion to the increase in awkwardness at trying to change."

John jogged to keep up as his thoughts kept him stalled, watching his back with as much interest as he generally observed his face. "Why at all, though? You of all people. Why do you want this with me?"

"Because we don't cuddle," Sherlock repeated. "That's not us. But I liked it. So… maybe it should be us."

John was at times amazed by his memory. And humbled by it. He cleared his throat. "There's more to it than just cuddling, Sherlock."

"I know. And you're the only one I'd want. Thai?" He pointed to a little restaurant with gold accents and pastel drapes, most of the people inside staring up at an overhead television screen showing the rescue crews at the Royal Albert Hall.

John hesitated with the change in topic though his mind welcomed the reprieve. "Yeah, Thai's... excellent. Perfect."

Sherlock smiled, the whole of their conversation seemingly forgotten as he held open the door, letting the smell of the spices hit them before John walked in before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another fantastic [fanart](http://khorazir.tumblr.com/post/21668416533/inspired-by-nikofords-intense-nocturne-in-tempo) from [khorazir](http://khorazir.tumblr.com)!! Thank you~!


	9. Chapter 9

John rolled his face away from the press of the warm, smooth crockery held against his cheek, the leather of the couch groaning nearly louder than him. 

"Come on; while it's hot."

"You buggering sod," John cursed, pulling himself into a ball. "I _just_ fell asleep. Leave me alone."

Sherlock sat the cup over John's ear, warming the folds like the rings of a stove-top. "It's coffee," he said, as though the contents of the mug would make a difference.

John positively fumed. "If it's not another four or five hours of sleep, I don't care what it is." He curled in on himself, arms hugging his sides. It had been daylight when they'd returned from St. Bart's and John hardly needed to open his eyes to see there was no lack of daylight still pouring in through the windows. He should have gone straight to his room, he chastised himself. If he'd gone to his room instead of laid on the couch to watch Sherlock continue to work, he'd have been able to have locked the nutter out who thought a bit of coffee was going to make up for a lack of proper rest.

One hand snaked its way under John's arm, long fingers curling around his bicep to try and pull him up to sit. "You can't sleep now, John. Have to stay awake till tonight or else you'll skew your sleep schedule."

"I could sleep till tomorrow morning. Just let me try."

"Nope, time to get up!"

John flailed to get him away, throwing himself into a seated position if only for the better vantage point from which to glare fire, daggers, and laser beams at the arrogant ass who thought keeping him awake was a fantastic game. Sherlock was as immune to John's rage as John had become to Sherlock's own tantrums. He held the coffee mug out again, smiling like a cat who'd brought home its kill.

"Extra strong. Should get you motivated."

"Are you describing how you'd like me to punch you in the face?" John asked, accepting the mug at last. It looked appropriately milky but one taste sent his taste-buds to scramble. Extra strong indeed. He took another sip, careful of the heat as much as the buzz. Well, it'd get him through a few more hours at any rate. He made a face, blinking his eyes open wide. "Alright. Alright, what is so bloody important that I need to be awake for?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" He was going to kill him. He was going to kill him.

Sherlock nodded, picking up John's laptop from where he'd left it as he took perch in his favorite chair. "I've e-mailed Moran about last night's demonstration but have heard nothing back. He always responds in a timely manner. All part of his regimented lifestyle. He is pointedly ignoring me."

"Oh, no!" John offered from the peanut gallery, still glaring over the mug in his hands. "So he's taking a little longer to reply. People get busy. People sleep in—the lucky bastards."

"John, do drink your coffee and shut up."

John sulked softly at his tone, not often being the one chastised. He was tired, though, and cranky and acting like a brat. Nothing a few hours of sleep wouldn't set right but lacking that option required him to simply suck it up. He drank his coffee, putting a bit more effort into being civil while he furrowed his brow in guilt.

It was apparently submissive enough to pacify Sherlock who typed along on the keyboard, eyes again glued to the screen. "I must have missed something... but how? Moran doesn't want to contact me because he thinks he already has but there was nothing there last night." 

"Well… it was dark. And there were crews running around. Maybe someone moved something or... I don't know, maybe whatever the message was was something set up during the day and at night it wasn't visible?"

Sherlock leaned back, fingers steepled at his lips. "Possibly. An amateur mistake and Moran is amateur at best. You can't learn genius but you can emulate it as you have been so good as to demonstrate. Could be he's devised something much grander than he is capable of."

John nodded, drinking deep of his brew. "So, we're going back to the Royal Albert Hall, then?" He leaned over to extract his phone from his pocket, pulling it out to check the time. He gave it a double look, sinking low in the couch cushions as the hour rocked his senses. Christ, he had only just lain down. He drowned himself in coffee. He hadn't missed this.

Sherlock closed the lid on the laptop, setting it down on the desk as he leapt up and paced quickly to the kitchen. "Have to check with the recovery crews."

"Fantastic." John sighed, leaning his head back against the couch. "Just give me a minute to get my shoes on."

"You're still wearing your shoes," the baritone voice called from the other room.

John wiggled his toes. Sure enough. He titled his head to the side to watch as Sherlock walked to his coat and scarf, pulling them on like his second skin. He never had showered or changed his clothes. "You seriously going back out like that?" John asked, nodding in his general direction. "How about hygiene, nutrition and then crime scenes today?"

"Not much call to change if I'm just going to be picking through rubble again." Sherlock slipped the scarf ends through the loop of the blue yarn like a yoke around his neck. "Besides which, I ate last night. With you as you might recall."

"Sherlock, that was… fourteen hours ago. Fourteen hours on our feet, busy working." John could most definitely feel his own stomach rumbling like twisted bubble wrap. 

Sherlock's hackles rose at another conversation about food, his jaw visibly set tighter. "I'll eat later. Right now I'm fine."

"No one is fine going fourteen hours between meals."

"Well, I obviously am."

John rubbed at his tired face, willing himself to wake up to a point where he was ready to deal with this. Fourteen hours was not okay. Days—and he knew he went that long often enough—was not okay. Someone had to say something and it always seemed to come down to him. 

But now, in private, and with every reason in the world to get into it, John found himself simply lacking in the heart to say a word at all. "...Okay. Well, maybe you don't but I need a shower and a meal."

"That's fine. You're not coming with me."

"Wha—"

"When you turn your computer back on you will find a multitude of files from Scotland Yard detailing the lists of dead and wounded from last night's bombing." Sherlock strode to the couch, gesturing. "Someone from Lestrade's office has already labeled a seating chart with the victims’ names to coincide with the bomb details and believe they know where the bomb was placed. I want background checks on everyone seated in the dead zone; Facebook and Twitter accounts put into consideration."

John nodded along slightly, most of it all going far over his head. "Wait, why am I not going with you exactly? This is desk work. This is what Lestrade's people are paid to do."

"Ah, but Lestrade's men lack one very important element—knowledge of our enemy. I put much more value in your ability to link the relevant data to anything that might be of interest to Moran or what Moran might believe to be important to Moriarty by extension." Sherlock leaned over and gave his shoulder a pat. "Don't worry, you'll do fine."

"You do realize the minute you're gone and I going to lay down for some kip, yeah?"

The detective shrugged, spinning back towards the door. "It's your own sleep schedule you're skewing. But I do need that data."

John sighed heavily, reaching to a bowl of apples set out by Mrs. Hudson before tossing one over to his friend. "For the road, then," he said, hardly watching it sail through the air for all the confidence he had in his catch.

Sherlock slid the apple in his pocket, smiling broadly in the absence of an argument. "My ringer's fine. Text me, though, if you come up with anything of interest." 

John nodded, eyes closed to the light as he heard the man take off down the stairs. Maybe he wasn't going to kill him after all, but he was certainly going to exercise his right to be willfully insubordinate. First food, though, and then a nap. Unlike some people, he couldn't ignore the rumblings of an empty stomach. Unlike some people, he didn't relish in it.

Not that he had proof. Speculation, yes, John had a great deal of that, but no proof that he was right in his observations of his best friend's eating habits. He was a medical doctor, not a doctor of psychology. He'd taken classes—many beautiful women were into the field of study—but most of what he remembered was that everything had to do with sex and everything was one's parents’ fault. Past that, he'd mostly been chatting up a brunette with fantastic knockers. Gentlemen though he tried to be, his years at Uni had been... memorable. 

The idea had come to him by some program he'd watched just a year or so before, some comedy panel show he'd put on with the intention of loafing on the couch in his pants after work. Not exactly where one expects to come to deep conclusions about their dead best friend's eating habits. The Quiz Master revealed after several comedic responses that in fact the best way to make a hard decision was to really need a piss, citing that when the conscious mind was distracted by the bodily need, the subconscious mind could better communicate the proper response. It was like when one wanted to remember an actor's name from a certain film but couldn't no matter how hard one tried until suddenly the conversation turned to bruschetta and bam!—Alan Rickman. Somehow distraction could be as necessary for recollection as actually having the knowledge itself was. The application of this new fun fact was almost too simple. At that time, nearly everything reminded John of Sherlock.

John had decided at some point that it had started in college. Like a little boy wearing new trainers, convinced they made him faster, John saw Sherlock sitting at his microscope, missing meals simply through becoming far too engrossed in his studies, and concluding his better analysis as a result of not eating. Feeling hunger just meant he was doing it right, that he was sufficiently empty of everything that might slow him down. He missed the cause for the effect, concluding food as the enemy to brain work rather than hunger as a sufficient distraction for the subconscious mind to be engaged. And the mind is such a tragically malleable thing. Even though food had never made him feel sluggish before, now teenage Sherlock was so convinced of his conclusions that he physically felt slower and became convinced he was somehow dumber with normal consumption of food. Food became necessary but hazardous in his studies and work. Hunger was important but the hunger hurt.

Which is where John figured in the cigarettes and, undoubtedly, the cocaine. Appetite suppressants, both of them. Sherlock could forgo the hunger pains and as a stimulant, despite his inaccurate assumptions on what really made his recall seem quicker, the illegal drug could have allowed him to still keep up his set pace. Euphoria in a world where people despised him, a little pick-me-up for the young man who had nothing but his own brilliance for company, cocaine was the wonder drug that fixed all ills. John could see why he'd be so tempted to return to it. Without cocaine, Sherlock was just a starving, lonely young man.

And then there was the adult life—drug free but still hungry. Not just trying to live a legal life that would gain him Lestrade's trust but trying to not be dependent on outside sources. He learned all the best restaurants in London so when he chose to eat it would be only the best, his precious mind only hampered by the most exemplary of dishes. Food was a reward for good service and he treated himself well. Sherlock turned his nose to cup-o-soup and other simple, cheap foods that tasted like the cheap imitations they were. John had always assumed it was his posh upbringing, a distaste for the foods of the lower class even if his attitude was far from discriminatory. If everything you put in your mouth was a compromise for the body over the mind, though, surely only the finest would do.

Food was Sherlock's greatest enemy, the need for it his failing as a man when he wanted to be a god. His self-imposed rules about when it was okay to eat, the mental chart of how long he could go before he did himself harm, were all set to regulate his mental facilities as the ultimate champion of all else. Sherlock didn't despair of food because he was afraid of getting fat, he starved himself because he was an idiot. Running with new trainers on didn't make one run faster. Starving never made Sherlock's brain work better. The necessary distraction just happened to be hunger enough times for the fool to get it wrong.

It was all speculation but far from improbable, further still from impossible, and neighboring close to likely. Sherlock was human and no human went days without food without feeling the pain. But how would one even begin to tell a man he'd been such a fool as to have given himself an eating disorder on the basis of a false deduction made over a decade ago?

John didn't care about being right. He didn't care about knowing the details behind Sherlock's darker days and macabre motivations. He only cared about his health. And while confronting it head-on was exactly what a best friend or lover should do, it was not his place as a man caught in between to say anything. It would be judging him, it would be pointing out faults when he wanted to impress. It would tear at Sherlock. Even if John had gotten it 100% wrong, there was still, with 100% certainty, something wrong with Sherlock's relationship with food.

Whatever they became when things settled down, John would take care of helping Sherlock to the best of his ability as both a doctor and that. It would have to wait, however. There were good times and bad times to rattle someone's mental foundation, and in the middle of an assassin's game was not among them. John would just keep an eye on him, press him to eat, and offer his own form of distraction to keep him as mentally engaged as he required. The row—and it would be a row—had to wait. But not forever.

John left the remainder of his thoughts on the mad, beautiful man on the couch as he rose up and walked in a daze towards the kitchen. Toast was quick, maybe cheese on toast this time, something a bit more savory than butter and jam. He checked the fridge for the few necessary ingredients as the coffee promised to keep his eyes open for just a few more hours. Not even the strongest brew could wholly compete with over 24 hours of consciousness.

His mobile rang as he waited, watching the broiler as the cheese melted and turned brown on top of two pieces of sliced bread. He snuck a glance at the phone, not wanting to burn his brunch. It wasn't a number he recognized but that didn't mean someone at Scotland Yard wasn't trying to give him information about the case. He still hadn't so much as cracked his laptop open to see what all he'd been left to tackle. He rather hoped whoever it was wasn't someone hard enough to be annoyed by that fact. He slid the screen open and held the mobile with his ear and shoulder while he found a mitt to remove the tray of melty toast.

"Yeah, hello?"

"Dr. Watson. At last."

John turned off the oven, setting the baking tray on top of the stove. The voice on the other line wasn't one he recognized. "Sorry, who is this?"

"I have bombs planted at four additional locations. If you do not calmly listen to everything I say, I will set them off one by one."

The soldier nearly dropped the phone, his hands grabbing for it as he stood straight, pacing to the counter for something hard to lean against. "You murdering cunt, if you think for one—"

"That doesn't sound like listening, Captain. Stand down. I'm in charge here."

John bit back further insults, his blood boiling but brain still retaining enough sense not to push it. Four more bombs, he'd said. There were lives at stake. "What do you mean four bombs, _Colonel_?"

Moran chuckled. It was mirthless and dark. "Just as incentive. If you cooperate, I'll let you know a location. That's four opportunities to save lives, Dr. Watson. Are you ready?"

"Ready for what?"

"Ready to play the game."

John clenched his jaw, breathing deep through his nose. Moran left no time for him to reply as he continued speaking.

"I'm no match for Sherlock. Not really. But I don't need to be. I'm more than a match for you. So this will be between you and me, our 'ordinary' version of their classic cat and mouse. And if you so much as breathe a word of it to anyone—Sherlock, the Yard, anyone—I'll set off the bombs. For now, they're on timers—password-protected timers. Defusing them in time without the password will be next to impossible. Are you following me so far, Captain?"

"Yes, sir." John winced at his own automatic response, the tone and intonation of Moran's voice harkening back to the days in Afghanistan. He couldn't even recall when he'd stopped gripping the counter in a death grip and had come to stand almost at attention.

Moran sounded pleased as he continued. "Good. Four bombs, Captain, and therefore four tasks which I will require you to carry out. Fail, and the bomb goes off. Get caught, and the bomb goes off. Raise anyone's suspicion in you and the bomb goes off. You get the idea. Today's location is a primary school. The bomb is set to go off at two this afternoon which doesn't leave you much time to complete your task and collect the location and password."

A primary school. John's heart sank, his body tensing. "And what is it I'm supposed to do?" he croaked through nerves. The clock on the wall said it was nearly ten till twelve.

"You're to call a cab, have the cabby drive you to an abandoned car park of my choosing and violently mug him." Moran's smile rang through the receiver as loudly as his voice. "You can keep the wallet as a personal bonus. The money doesn't interest me."

"What the fuck does that accomplish?!"

"That's not for me to tell you—that's for you to find out."

John felt his knees lock, his fist clenched tight at his side as he stared into the empty space in front of him where an imaginary scale weighed lives against a life, death against violence and fear. It was far from a hard decision but it made him feel ill, his veins like ice water.

"Are you ready to play, Captain?" the voice repeated on the line.

His fist hit the table with enough force to bruise the skin of his knuckles.


	10. Chapter 10

Mary's murderer had a smoother sounding voice than John had imagined. Evil didn't have a sound any more than it had a look but somehow John had imagined a croak like an old man grown hoarse from a lifetime smoking, the kind of voice that had age carved into it, each rasp and rumble like a ring on an old tree to demonstrate the life cycle of an army Colonel. Sebastian Moran sounded like a normal bloke of good health, though the strictness in his delivery was as unwelcome as it was familiar. He might have saluted this man out in the desert. There was no way of knowing outside comparing army records, stationed dates and battle notes that could have meant they'd crossed paths. He might have tended to the man's wounds at some point. Through a series of events, he might have saved a life that saved a life that saved Moran's. War made heroes and villains of them all and John despised the thought of this man once having been among the ranks of those he entrusted with his life and whose lives he vowed to protect and save. 

There were many facets to the level of betrayal he felt in being thrown together with Moriarty's replacement. Brothers in arms, there should have been more honor and respect shown each other. Moran killed his girlfriend then made a mockery of John's Hippocratic Oath in the name of a pointless game all crafted for his own amusement. The man had no honor and deserved no respect. But it was the fear of him that made John hold his tongue. He thought back to the Hall, to the stretchers and the rubble and the bodies and the list of the dead and wounded waiting for him on his laptop. If it was true, if there were more bombs, he had no choice but to play and to obey every order the sadist gave him.

Truth was hardly a word he would ever choose to describe the words that followed from the earpiece of his phone, though. Only an idiot accepted everything he was told to be Gospel. John Watson was nobody's fool. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"Would you like a demonstration? I thought last night might be enough to prove I'm serious but if you insist on—"

"Moran, wait—"

"You don't get it, do you?" The man chuckled lightly, amused to no end. "Last night never had to happen. I called, you know. I've called you many times and you just never answered. Time was up for the Royal Albert Hall and so... But alright. You want proof? I'll have one of my men call in the bomb threat. Not to the school, no, the location of your current incentive isn't something I'm willing to share. Too easy for you. There's a tube station, though, with a bomb secured in a duct. Hell, I'll even let them know where in the vents. They can't stop it without the code. Any attempt to remove or disarm it will cause it to explode. Let's see if they believe me any faster than you do."

John could feel the chill of sweat on his brow, his body throbbing with excitement and fear. No matter how much he had missed this life, the danger was still overwhelming at times. "How does that prove anything to me?" he asked, waiting for something more, mindful of the minutes that passed and ticked away towards detonation. 

"You'll see. I doubt he'll disappoint me." Moran wasn't about to give John any time to consider his words let alone his options, though. He continued on talking, his serious voice edging on the side of wistful as he spoke. "Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective is a very difficult man to plan around when you're trying to keep business going. You never know what clues are going to lead him straight to your door. When it comes to Sherlock Holmes the man, though, nearly everything is easy to plan and manipulate. Jim used to say dancing with the detective was an improvised work of art while the man alone was a choreographed number of rehearsed precision. Jim labeled every move and sequence, could point out every strength and weakness in the tired performance and I've had more than enough time to study it all. 

I liked his metaphors. You don't get that kind of creativity in most of your employers. Metaphors make even the most complex of ideas so much simpler to grasp. He spoke to us as both stupid children and capable idiots. And it never once pissed me off. It's a different sort of power than the kind used in the services. But you know all about that. Before it was orders and attitude, commanding respect with might. Not him. Moriarty commanded respect with his mind, the fear of what he was capable of and knowing even he wasn't quite sure of his own limitations. His potential for genius and cruelty was limitless. Everyone, kings to crooks and allies and enemies alike, respected James Moriarty. Funny that almost no one respects Sherlock Holmes. Do you know why that is, Captain? Would you like me to tell you? Why not; still got a few more minutes to kill.

No one does or will ever respect Sherlock Holmes because he's capable of being a villain and no one can quite understand what holds him back from his potential. His enemies find his choices hilariously naive and his colleagues are just waiting for him to slip. Evil is evil but good can sometimes just be the kind of bad that hasn't been caught yet."

John breathed loudly, anger flaring through his nostrils. "You don't know him like I do."

"No, I'd say I know him better. Because I knew Jim. You might say they were two sides of the same coin, two extremes of the same kind of genius, but how different are they really? If two boys pull the wings off a butterfly, does it really matter that one wanted to test how long it took it to die while the other just felt like watching something beautiful suffer? In the end there are two happy boys playing with a dead bug. Now, I believe I just heard your text alert. Read it to me, Captain."

"... Bomb in Oxford Circus. Take a cab. SH."

"Wise words. You've wasted enough time as it is."

John shook his head, pacing towards the door and his jacket on the hook though his feet were heavy as lead. "None of this necessary!" he shouted through closed teeth, shouldering on his coat as he headed down the stairs. "These games are meaningless! If you want us dead, just kill us! Come at us, don't involve the whole of London!"

"If you don't want to play, just end the game. It's very simple. The game ends when either Sherlock Holmes or myself is dead. You don't know where I am but you spend nearly every waking minute with my opponent."

"No."

"Then hurry, Captain." Moran ordered, amusement coloring his tone. "It's your turn, and time is running out."

\+ + +

The cab driver was Indian and very quiet. There were no personal touches to the cab, no photos or iconography, nothing that really said anything about the man behind the wheel. The few words they had exchanged were enough for John to assume the man was native to London, the lack of a foreign accent ruling out his being a recent immigrant. Probably not even second generation. With his close-cut hair and a straight-backed posture, he reminded John of an office worker or student, someone struggling to make a living but putting up a good appearance to the business world. He looked to be only a few years younger than John, maybe as much as a decade but certainly no child and far from an old man. John was grateful to that point of fortune. The senseless deed he was to carry out for a meaningless game all part of pointless entertainment was bad enough without having to make it assault on the elderly or infirm as well.

The car park he'd asked to be taken to was not in a location John was familiar with, making it hard to assess how close or far they were from reaching their destination. It gave him time, though. Not much, but some; enough at least to try and work out his strategy, how to incapacitate the man and wound him superficially so as not to leave him with anything more lasting than the terror of an unwarranted attack. The driver looked fit. He would probably be able to put up a fight so the element of surprise was John's best bet to knock him out and down before a struggle escalated to a brawl. John needed to be well enough to get the information from Moran once it was over. Simply failing to fight and getting his ass handed to him in the attempt was not going to save anyone. Needs required he play along exactly as Moran instructed him and therein, hopefully, would lie the errors to trap him.

If Moran was going to know he'd completed his task as asked, surely there would be someone or something there to be his eyes. John hoped for the former, someone he could get a good look at and track down, someone he could bully into giving him answers. Anything was preferable to games. Anything was better than possibly hundreds of lives at risk across the city and nothing but compliance keeping them alive. 

John's mobile sounded its text alert, his hands trembling strangely as he pulled the phone from his jacket pocket and looked to see his new message. From Sherlock. Always from Sherlock. The second one in the past five minutes and marking the man's impatience with each jarring trill.

_Wake up! This is no time to be sleeping. –SH_

John rested his thumb against the buttons, tempted to text a reply but knowing he could not. Being thought of as asleep was the best cover he could ask for in a call to arms. Sherlock would be grossly annoyed at him but people would at least be alive. Sherlock included. He was probably with Lestrade, face nearly pressed against the bomb like the idiot he was, wondering if he could figure out the code and itching to try. Lestrade wouldn't let him though. Greg had more than enough sense for the both of them at least, giving John some sense of relief as he headed for his first criminal foray. Sherlock didn't need someone to keep him from doing something stupid—usually—but he did tend to need someone to remind him that curiosity was responsible for more than just feline fatality. Or to at least have his back as he reaffirmed what could and could not kill through trial and error.

Sherlock would figure it out. He'd find a clue, he'd find Moran, and he'd end the game before anyone else got hurt. Not in time to keep the cab driver unharmed, but eventually. It was John's job to buy him time for London's sake. 

It felt better to think of it that way. He wasn't following Moran's orders, he was letting Sherlock work. And Sherlock would win. He had to. It was a when, not an if. Closing his eyes with a deep breath, John felt sure of it. 

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of a cement structure, slowing to a stop with no sense of hesitation. They'd arrived. The tremor in John's left hand made his fingers buzz against his knee.

"You sure you want to get out here?" the man asked, apparently noting the same isolated landscape that John was. It was deserted and marked heavily in graffiti with rusted chain fencing along an overgrown perimeter that no longer served to keep anyone either out or in.

John swallowed, chewing on the inside of his lip. "Yeah... this is the place... What do I owe you?" He took out his wallet, pretending to flip through notes as he half listened to the man read out the numbers on the lit meter. He needed them both to leave the cab here; he couldn't attack a man kept safe behind a locked door and a hard plastic partition. While he wasn't a master criminal or even a well-versed actor the likes of Sherlock Holmes, he was far from without resources. He was a doctor. As much as it pained him, he knew what to do. With a less than award-winning performance, John began to convulse and slide down in his seat, letting his eyes roll back in his best impression of what laymen thought a seizure looked like. He felt like an idiot and knew he looked like an utter buffoon to any trained professional. The sound of the car door opening and the shadow of a concerned face looking over him at least showed that his own meager means of deception worked when needed. The driver held him by the shoulders, surveying him for signs on how to help. He seemed to mostly ignore the sharp jut of his knee into his stomach, perhaps writing it off as a product of John's convulsions. The fist in his face that sent him stumbling backwards out of the cab set that record straight instantly.

John did not give either himself or the driver any time to think. He launched himself at him, throwing him to the ground, giving himself the advantage as the driver grabbed to still his arms. On his back, on the cement, there was only so much the cabby could do that wasn't purely defensive. He held his arms up to protect his face, leaving his ribs unguarded for the hard jab to the left, a follow up aimed hard at his diaphragm to knock the wind from his lungs. He coughed, instinctively curling, his head suddenly left vulnerable as he hugged at his aching trunk. John sent a blow to his temple which made the man's eyes grow wide, then a second hit to the chin that knocked his head back to the ground, bouncing his skull hard against the pavement, rolling his dark brown eyes back as they finally fell closed and his body went limp. 

The soldier's blood was pumping fast, adrenalin fueling him as he leapt off the man, stumbling back against the cab, his fists aching from the blows and his left hand completely stilled from the fight. He breathed hard through his nose, the whistle of it the only sound as he looked down at the man with blood on his lips. He felt sickened by the thrill of it. It felt like ages since he’d last had a brawl, even if this victory was tainted by poor sportsmanship.

His phone rang, his steady hands pulling it from his coat pocket to give the caller ID a quick glance. Not Sherlock; unknown number. With a final deep breath he pressed the receiver to his ear. "Hello?"

"Well done, Captain. I was wondering how you'd get him out of the cab. I'd assumed you'd use your gun, but faking a seizure? Sherlock Holmes must be rubbing off on you."

John looked around, seeing nothing and no one. No cars, no cameras, no strangers in the shadows. Moran wasn't there and whatever he was using as his eyes was not readily visible. It was far less than what he'd hoped for. He pressed the phone close to his face, watching the unconscious man at his feet. "The address," he reminded him. "The code."

"Sir James Barrie Primary School. The ventilation in the music room. The code is 326e64."

"And the tube station?"

"You'll figure it out."

"No, not good enough! I did what you asked!"

"And I asked you to do that for the school's code." The colonel's no-nonsense tone was back, his grave voice marked by irritation. "I've practically given you the third one. I'm sure you can solve it in time. The tube is tomorrow's bomb. You have nearly twenty four hours to work it out. Besides, I think you have more important things to worry about right now."

"Such as?"

"Such as how you're going to get home. How you're going to alert the police about the other bomb without giving yourself away. How you're going to keep the man you just assaulted quiet. Ma’a salama, Captain." The line went dead.

John stared at the empty cab he couldn't drive and the long walk down the roads he hadn't paid any attention to. The multitude of curse words that filled his mind gave him little pleasure in light of his new dilemma. The answer to one question was simple enough. He set about that task first with very little hesitation.

In the cabby's pocket was the man's mobile. John scowled slightly at the newer model, his eyes wandering over the touch screen for the button that would allow him to text. It took him longer than he felt necessary but the capability became open to him. It was vital he got this right. Sherlock's mobile number was on the website; anyone could text him anything at any time. Today, Sherlock was going to meet a new friend.

_Bomb. Sir James Barrie Primary School. Music room duct. 326e64._

He sent the text and shifted the phone into his other coat pocket, looking down at the man who could identify him, whose phone number they could trace the text to, who could tell the police everything they needed to know to track John down and end them all.

So mugging became kidnapping or murder. Somehow John figured that was how Moran planned it to be. Two bombs, two crimes. He hurried into the abandoned car park, looking for a place to hide a man with a million thoughts running through his mind as to how he'd get back to the location to make sure he was okay and how to hide the cab till things blew over. Killing him would be so much easier and so very out of the question. The car park offered plenty of dark corners to hide a body but nowhere safe and quiet to hold a human being.

The phone—not his but the other man's—gave an unfamiliar buzz in his pocket. John pulled it out, smiling slightly to see the digits he knew so well.

_Who is this? What of the bomb in Oxford Circus? -SH_

John worried his lip, typing his response slowly, double checking for errors and purposefully changing his own texting habits.

_You have all you need to know. First the school. Next the tube._

He pocketed the phone as he ran back to the car, a little worried to see the man still out of it but pleased all the same. If he could drive, it wouldn't be too difficult to get them all far away from the isolated location, but as he couldn't it was pointless to consider. This was what he had to work with: one unconscious man, one black cab, and an abandoned car park. The need to think and work fast went without saying.

Another buzz, another text.

_Who is this? What is your involvement? –SH_

John frowned as he typed.

_I'm helping. I'm a friend. Trust me._

The interruptions were not helping his cause. John grabbed the driver, pulling him up into the back of the cab and laying him out on the floor. He frisked him for his wallet, taking from it his ID card. It was a very bad day to be Ashwin Preeti. John tossed the wallet in beside him, leaving everything else inside. He checked the driver's seat of the cab for paper and pen, glad to find Mr. Preeti was a fan of Sudoku. He picked up the half-completed book and the pen marking his place, ripping off the back cover for a clear page to leave a message. He wrote simply: " _Do not go to the police. I will know if you do and I know where to find you. If anyone asks, you lost your phone. Say otherwise and you will lose much more. Say nothing_". He hoped the threat was clear enough, the intent unmuddled. If the want for justice was stronger than fear, he'd fail Moran's game and forfeit hundreds of lives. There was no other option worth considering, though. It simply had to be enough.

_Helping who? – SH_

_You_ , John thought as he tucked the page under the man's arm, pinning it against his chest to not go unseen. He locked and closed the doors with the keys still inside, at least letting the man sleep protected in the middle of nowhere. His wounds weren't severe. He'd wake up with a headache and some sore ribs but he would be fine. Everyone would be fine if he just obeyed the note.

John took off down the road at a jog which soon became a run as he raced suspicion home.


	11. Chapter 11

John let the hot water run over him, eyes closed to the spray as it beat down against his face, filling his head with a roar like white noise to help drown out all the words and thoughts clamoring inside his skull. So much and too much, loud as the guilt he'd once nursed after the fall and just as insistent as it raged against his ribs. His heart hurt in every way but those clinically diagnosable. Water on his face was several steps away from drowning but he felt six feet under with his limbs pinned against ascension. It didn't make him want to leave the shower all the same. It didn't matter that he'd finished washing off the sweat and dirt long before. It helped to feel the warm wet pouring down on him, to hear it rumble and feel its tapping. He'd stay there forever if he could, hidden behind a thin plastic sheet of shadows, free to avoid everything else beyond in the sanctuary of the tub.

Not that Sherlock accepted any room in their flat as a sanctuary. Pacing in the small space, the detective had been a non-stop chatterbox on the details of his day and the puzzle left for the evening texted by an anonymous supplier—John himself. With Sherlock, the shower provided an entirely different and extremely necessary function. Behind the curtain he couldn't read John's face. With the water coming down, he might miss a nervous pause in his voice or take omission as a simple sign of not hearing him so well over the thunder of the spray. John had never tried to purposefully deceive Sherlock before. He feared he would prove as poor in the attempt as every other mere mortal—worse given how well they knew each other. If he failed, if somehow Moran found out he hadn't been able to keep this secret, people would die. He had no choice. Again. He held his breath and let the water break against his sinuses. For Queen and Country. For London. But, God, not for Moran.

"I still can't believe you slept through the crew Mrs. Hudson said were working on 221c. Must have been a right racket," Sherlock continued, somehow back to admonishing his friend for his absence and silence during one of the more exciting afternoons since his return. "Are you sure you're not ill? The phone is one thing but not hearing people in and out all afternoon?"

John tilted his head, letting his breath out quietly till the water pooling over his lip dripped to his toes. "Maybe I am coming down with something. I don't really feel that great."

Sherlock hummed in concession as he hopped to sit on the sink, his feet bouncing against the cabinet doors to make them clang. "Well, perhaps it's better you stayed here, in that case. I'll need you tonight. The anonymous 'friend' supplied only the code for a bomb no one had even been aware of. The one at the station is still very much armed and ticking down to 1300 hours tomorrow. I'd like to say the use of military time is telling of our bomber but I think it's probably a manufacturer preset. Too many casualties from idiots forgetting to program it from am to pm."

"Any clues?"

"Apparently, though for the moment I fail to see the relevance. If the code for one is meant to be a clue for the other, we can assume there is a relationship, some kind of correlation between the bomb and its code. So what about that school's music room is related to 326e64?"

John didn't know. On the run and subsequent ride back to the flat, he hadn't given much thought to anything other than beating Sherlock home. He'd succeeded by minutes, managing to strip down and toss his laundry in the bin with time still to wait for the water to warm before getting in and hearing the heavy foot falls on the steps. Now he was breathless with worry. If he hadn't told Sherlock enough, if some clue had been at the car park, something seen or said that only he knew about that completed the puzzle, if he failed in that text in some way, he was going to cost the government hundreds of thousands of pounds in damages. Lives at the very least were not at stake but livelihoods were. 

He was so tired.

"Directional?" he offered, pushing his hair off his forehead as he let the water beat against his chest.

"E meaning East? I see where you're going but no, the numbers don't appear to have any meaning in regards to an address, latitude, kilometers, bus routes, the underground or really any form of transportation or postal code." The way he spoke made it obvious he'd thought the same and had looked heavily into it. There was a familiar squeak from the sink area, John's open eyes spying the motions of Sherlock's dark silhouette. He was writing on the mirror, drawing in the fogged glass. "I wish I had more information on the concert bombing. Perhaps comparing data from the two will help with the third—like points on a graph."

John sighed loudly, almost a growl. He never did look over the information Sherlock had had sent to him. Things just kept getting better and better. He picked at the broken skin of his knuckles, imagining he could still feel the creak of ribs and the resistance of bone against them. Sherlock would notice. Clenching his jaw tight, John pulled back and punched the tile wall, pain rolling all the way up to his elbow as the blow spiked along his already sensitized nerves. He allowed himself to curse as he pulled his hand back, pink puddles dripping down the beige, patterned tile.

"John?"

"Just... frustrating," he forced, holding his hand to his mouth, biting down on the softer pad to halt the shout he still wanted to scream. No questions to be asked now. He hurt his hand in the shower. 

"...Are you alright?"

"Ngn." It wasn't a word but it was still in both their vocabularies. John shook his hand out, his teeth marks leaving Stonehenge imprinted in his palm. He put his hand under the water, wincing at the sting of it as blood dripped from the cracks in his fist. Not broken but certainly worse off. 

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, the shadow of him still in its perch. "It's just a structure, John," he offered. 

"The school wasn't. There were kids in that school." There was no real need to say much more. The cost of being alive was becoming a very expensive tab and neither of them were fools enough to dismiss who was left to pay. 

The detective shifted, his foot knocking the cabinet again, unintentional and quickly silenced. "You hurt yourself?"

"Don't worry about it."

"John—"

"It's fine. Just... I'm frustrated, I don't feel very good, I'm still tired, and there's no way I can sleep if we don't figure this out so... let's just keep at it. Not an address, not a direction, so what else?"

Sherlock slid down off the sink, walking closer to the shower curtain. For a moment, John was terrified his friend was about to pull the curtain back. He had nothing to hide physically anymore but one look at his face had John convinced he would cave. He needed the man to be a shadow while his mind was still raw as butchered beef. Imagining his eyes, indiscriminately discriminating in kaleidoscope greys, was almost enough to make him squirm. He'd know, he'd see, and he'd be the death of them all.

"Sh-Sherlock..."

"Influenza or food poisoning do you think?" he asked, standing still. "If it's the former, I'd prefer not to catch it. But you've been in the hot water for some time, probably to combat chills as well as relax sore muscles so from my knowledge it could be either."

John smiled just slightly to himself, leaving the skin on his knuckles alone. Shock was perhaps closer to the truth. But the flu would give him much needed distance. Sherlock was an unintentional saint for giving him an out but thanking him for it seemed wrong. "Flu, probably," he said, breathing deep of the steam. "Food tasted fine last night. I'll try not to infect you while you're working."

"I appreciate the effort." The detective stepped back from the curtain, trailing back away closer to the door. "I'll take care of the code in that case. You rest."

"Not possible with this on my mind." The water was growing cold, though. He'd have to turn it off soon or Sherlock would become suspicious. He rubbed his face, feeling fever in his mind in the way it distorted his thoughts and pulled at his eyelids. He couldn't afford sleep. At least it wasn't until the third consecutive day that one began hallucinating. Traditionally. "Too bad you can't just... Google to find the answer," John said, hand poised over the shower controls.

The quiet in response was somewhat surprising. He heard Sherlock take out his phone and type as he turned off the water, standing dripping and wet in the remaining moments of concealment.

"...—It's hexadecimal for teal," Sherlock said at last, excitement coloring his deep voice as a chuckle worked its way into the fogged room. "John, you are outstanding!" he praised, strutting out of the room without pause as his laughter continued.

The silence of the bathroom gave a resounding all clear as John grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, blinking in confusion but perhaps a little flushed from more than just the water. "What does teal have to do with a primary school?" he called out, but Sherlock was in their living room, too far to listen and too engaged to reply. John pulled on his dressing down and walked into his bedroom, sliding the door shut behind him.

No closed doors could block out the triumphant shout of "337264!" as the detective apparently found his answer, his following words much softer, more muffled through the space and doors between them though ‘ _Lestrade_ ’ and a repeat of the string of numbers gave John a clear picture of what he was doing. He was sure, then. He'd cracked it. John stared at the door for a few more moments, fearful to make a sound that would drown out the other's phone call least victory turn to defeat with his hopes still high. There was only a reprisal of a laugh— _that_ laugh—the one that celebrated his own cleverness in tandem with relief. John loved that laugh. 

He dressed himself in sleep clothes, hardly having pulled on his pants before Sherlock threw open his door with no manners or care. John cast him a very quick, reproachful look before turning his back to him as he finished dressing. He was more curious than upset and more worried than his nerves could take. In that quick glance he'd seen that elated, childlike rapture on his friend's face, though. Even plagued by guilt and fear, that smile made him brave. It gave him hope.

"So you going to tell me what I said that was so outstanding?" he asked, forcing strength behind his voice. 

"Google!" Sherlock shouted, stepping closer and then, as though remembering, stepping back. His presence buzzed like electricity behind him as John stepped into knit sweats with the drawstring stuck knotted. "First search entry lists 326e64 as a hexadecimal value—values of color expressed in letter and number combinations much as binary expresses nearly everything in ones and zeros. And, like binary, you can use it as a cypher, each pair of numbers and letters no longer expressing color combinations but individual characters. Translate Hex to Text and 326e64 is '2nd'."

John felt the flutter of pride rising up in his chest, swelling with an awe only Sherlock could inspire. "The Royal Albert Hall was first, the school was second, and Oxford Circus is third."

"Exactly. Translate '3rd' into hexadecimal and you get 337264. I've phoned Lestrade. The underground should be back in business within the next few hours once they've cleared out all the explosive materials." His voice was rich with expectation. He knew he was the best but he'd be damned if he didn't hear it from John. 

For his part, John did his best not to get carried away in hysterics. Sherlock was every bit the man he needed him to be with Moran no longer waiting in the wings but rather directing John's performance. He did his best to swallow the laugh though nothing could hide his delight. "Sherlock, you are... perfect. Seriously. I mean it. Perfect." He looked over his shoulder at him, tricked by relief into daring to find his radiant eyes. He was beside himself, wide-set grin pulling lines into his usually smooth and flawless face. No woman or man had ever looked more beautiful. "I could kiss you."

"Really rather you didn't. Whatever you're coming down with, I'll take my chances with the amount of exposure I received last night." He pushed his hands in his pockets, sizzling still like a firework waiting to go off.

John nodded, remembering his ruse, and took a wide path around him towards his bed. "Probably for the best... actually, now that this is all settled, I think I'm going to have another lie down."

Sherlock watched him, his excitement settling only slightly. "Right. Good. Fluids too. I'll go get you some water. Uh… soup, perhaps? Or just sleep?"

"...You're going to make me dinner?"

"Not make, no. Heat up. Sure there's some soup in a tin in the cupboard."

John smiled a little, sitting down in the gap of the pulled back sheets. "Uh... sure. Soup'd be... brilliant, really."

Sherlock rocked back on his heels with a smile and strode back out of the room, the banging of pans in the kitchen letting the whole house know he was attempting domesticity. Attempting was perhaps a bit unfair. Sherlock was very capable, just extremely lazy. John was half certain the man could cook a four-course meal of five star excellence if motivated enough to do so. Cooking was an applied science, after all. Sherlock only ever needed a push in the right direction to get the gears moving.

His bedroom so close to the kitchen, John could hear everything Sherlock did. He heard him open the tin, light the burner, pour the soup into a pot, heard the scrape of the metal spoon as he stirred the liquid as it cooked. It was what he didn't hear after a while that worried him. When the stirring stopped and the boiling didn't, John rose up from his bed to peek into the kitchen. Sherlock still stood at the stove but the spoon no longer stirred. His head was resting against the cabinets, eyes closed.

"Sherlock?" John called quietly. 

The detective did not move at all save to breathe in slow, even breaths. He was asleep. He'd hit the crash after the high mid stir, unable to deny sleep any longer after days of crawling over rubble, running to crime scenes and wracking his mind for answers. John didn't even care to consider the other forms of strain he'd been under. He was quiet as he came up beside him, turning the burner off as he pulled the spoon from Sherlock's hand and carefully leaned him into his arms to move him to the couch. The detective was a useless lump, offering no help whatsoever and completely undeterred from his rest.

"Thought you were going to take care of me this time," John muttered as he dragged him up against the cushions and grabbed the blanket off the back of his chair. He could hardly be mad at him. It was Sherlock; the thought really did matter more than the execution. He kissed his forehead, finding the impulse to press his lips to his skin simply unnecessary to deny. This was them, now. They were friends and sometimes, when the mood took them, they kissed.

He let his lips linger, willing his thoughts to travel through their skin and tell Sherlock everything he could not. About Moran. About a lot of things. Sherlock was not just a brilliant man, he was _his_ brilliant man and he needed him to be more than brilliant, he needed him to be extraordinary.

On Monday, John intercepted a package at the airport. On Tuesday, he was making go-between phone calls using the stolen mobile. By Thursday he had orders to tail a man, sending Sherlock bogus messages to keep him out and away and as unknowing as possible. By Friday, John didn't bother explaining his actions to himself anymore. The threat of bombs and retaliation were unspoken and understood, no longer requiring proof.

Regardless of his good intentions, John was working for Moran now.


	12. Chapter 12

If Mary had been an ordinary woman, Sherlock would not have come back. John would have simply lived happily ever after, blissfully unaware that the life he could have had was still out there, somewhere, alone now forever. Sherlock hadn't been motivated by jealousy but by concern, the same concern shared by Mary in their game of ' _What's Best for John?_ '. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that John could not share the burden of a conscience made heavy with guilt. Crime was not a debatable topic. John did not tolerate the suffering of innocents or debate the value of the safety and quality of their lives. He had a soldier's heart, one that put everything into the service of others. Sherlock knew it, Mary knew it, and so, of course, in the end, Colonel Sebastian Moran knew it as well.

And exploited it.

And tested the reserves of strength that could bend a man's values and pride.

And did it gleefully. Expertly.

John hated to admit that the Colonel was winning. More than that, he was one breath away from having won. In a week of petty crimes and involvement in larger scale terrorist plannings, there was only so much he could say to himself to excuse the bartering each odd job involved between what was and was not an acceptable sacrifice for their own lives. Eventually there would come an order he could not obey. The fact that John had already planned out the murder-suicide killed something inside him. Killing Sherlock might end the game but living without him, with his blood on his hands, was no more an option than killing innocent bystanders all drawn in as pawns. 

It would start with dinner out. He owed Mrs. Hudson so much more than to leave their bodies in her home for her to find. Perhaps the Royal Garden Hotel, table for two, or Angelo's for sentiment with a candle to make it more romantic. Since they'd both be dead before morning, it didn't matter if the tabloids saw. He hoped they did. Whatever backlash, whatever gossip, whatever stupid assumptions the whole of the world made, they wouldn't matter then. They'd at least have one part of it right: John was in love with the world's only consulting detective. And on that night, Sherlock would know it too and at the very least die knowing he was loved. They would have the perfect romance, all ups and no downs, no fear of fallout because it ended where it began. Sherlock would probably suspect that somewhere in the willingness of his confession was some motive that forced his hand. But he didn't know love the way he knew crime. It would slow his assumptions just long enough to enjoy a few hours in mutual understanding. 

Then they'd walk. No cab just yet, he'd think up an excuse on the spot, and they'd follow down an alley like they often did, bypassing the congested streets, keeping to themselves. He'd ask Sherlock to close his eyes and suspicious but trusting, he would. If John was lucky, the bullet would break open his skull before he even knew the danger. The gunshot would get the police's attention and the isolation of the shooting would keep the gore from too many eyes. He'd place the muzzle in his own mouth and fire off the last bullet, deserving of something much more painful for the crimes of his guilt and fear but sufficient in its efficiency.

When the police searched John's laptop they'd find a confession saved to the desktop. For the crimes he couldn't admit to, he would confess to the murder of Mary Morstan and let Sherlock be remembered as the hero he was with no speculation otherwise. He owed him that and more. Surely even Mycroft, despite knowing better, would go along with the story as penalty for murdering his brother.

And Moran could do his own dirty work. And one day Mycroft would get him. Chances were no one would ever really know what had happened, but at least the things that John could influence would be taken care of and those he could not would be left in capable hands. He'd plotted it all out in his head before bed, perfecting it till it seemed more than just doable, but likely. He'd had bad days but never like these. As much as he believed in Sherlock, he could not wait forever.

Sherlock, to his credit, was aware of something but unable to pinpoint it. John watched him often from over dinner or the day's paper with that particular, thoughtful frown. The bombs, Moran, the confession, they had all happened in so short a span of time it was a wonder John could tell the stress of one from the other. Surely Sherlock could not without knowledge of all three. John's nervous defensiveness, the obvious secrecy, the increased want of privacy were all likely thought of as response to Sherlock's candor. It pained John to let him believe that but like sickness, it was too perfect a cover to dispel. He'd set it straight one day over a candlelit supper. If John could live three years deceived, Sherlock could last another few months, or weeks, or days. It was all down to him and Moran, though just how exactly the detective could not know. Either the Holmes boys found him or Moran pushed hard enough to put the cross-hairs on Sherlock's skull at an intimate distance. 

John was going to ruin that beautiful, chiseled face. Surety over vanity; he would not let him suffer just to save his flesh for the fires.

Sherlock cleared his throat, square of toast in his hand as he absently—rudely—tapped away at his laptop at the breakfast table. John wasn't exactly a centerpiece of conversation himself, catching himself staring between sips of tea with nothing on his mind to share and everything to conceal. Sherlock's forced cough was probably due more to the texture of toast than a want of speech but John watched him and waited all the same. It had been a tensely quiet morning.

Sherlock caught his eye and looked back at his tea, his left eyebrow arching suspiciously. "Busy day planned?" he asked, long fingers gliding over the touch pad of his laptop. The screen was tilted to be unreadable from where John sat.

"Uh... could be. Not really sure." John tried not to swallow or take a drink immediately after speaking, finding himself doing it far too often and turning into, perhaps, a slight tell. "There's the police write up on the bomb case. And I should probably think about updating the blog with the case as well since the tube shutdown was pretty well known."

Sherlock nodded, typing, distracted. "Not a bad idea. I think you'll find Lestrade's men took care of the police report, however. I believe the exact wording of our involvement was _'Sherlock called in with the code, having figured it out on his own through unknown means'_. I think I might actually prefer your wordy explanations. At least you don't describe deduction with the same tone as one might magic."

John chuckled, fingers curling against the denim of his jeans in his lap. "Yeah, and I probably would have added that I helped as well."

"You were instrumental," Sherlock agreed. He chewed another bite of toast, honey-covered and leaving his lips tacky, his tongue following after every bite to lick away the sweetness. He chewed slowly, purposefully hesitating to speak. It made John nervous to see him so pensive. Nothing good could come of it. "Moran contacted me," he said at last.

John tried not to hold his breath. "Anything interesting?"

"Marginally. Mild congratulations on figuring out the code and a few bits on how I'm still missing what is right in front of me. I'm sure he thinks himself very clever by now. He's still no genius and certainly no Moriarty."

"Right... yeah." John's mouth felt far too dry. He picked up his tea and took a long sip, wishing away Sherlock's suspicions. "Any clues as to where to find him?"

"Some." He closed the lid on his computer and stood up, the last few bites of his breakfast forgotten as he spun off towards the stairs, his dressing gown floating behind him like a cape. "I need to revisit the bomb sites. Well enough yet to come?"

"To the... Oh."

"I never got a fair look at the music room. Had been working a completely different location at the time. If they're listed as one, two and three then I'm missing the whole picture." Sherlock was up the stairs and shouting down at John more than halfway through his thoughts. It had worked much better when his room had been on the same floor as the rest of the flat. His multitasking talking/dressing routine suffered from his relocation.

John let out a shaky breath with Sherlock no longer in the room. He wanted to go, if only for the fun of another tandem excursion. But Moran might call and he did not react kindly to voice mail. Or Sherlock might say or see something and turn his deductive mind on John. It was far too risky to be alone with him around cases he'd been involved in. He might slip and say something he shouldn't know or forget something he should while thinking he shouldn't. He hadn't been _that_ careful. He hadn't really had the time to be with the first crime. He still held his breath every time someone came to the door, waiting for it to be the police, expecting Mr. Preeti to have given in to thoughts more reasonable than fear. He shouted back up the stairs to Sherlock, tradition making it pointless to wait. "Still feeling a bit under the weather. Should probably stay home and work on the blog. Your reputation needs all the help it can get."

"Lestrade offered the advice ' _More sex, less scandal'_. I think he means for me to win public opinion by means far removed from my intellect." There was a thud and a slam, a shuffle and a bump. What Sherlock did upstairs was often puzzling. He appeared on the stairs having only completed the most basic steps in dressing, half his shirt buttons still undone as he finished tucking the ends into his trousers, belt hanging open in the loops. "My shirts aren't too tight, are they?" he asked, addressing a topic brought up in John's absence by the sound of it.

John smirked, pulling his lips taut. " _Too_ tight? No. Not at all." There was, of course, a certain right amount of tight. If the tabloids spent half as much time willing the buttons to give up as they did trying to get shots of the two of them in candidly compromising positions, they'd find their tasks much easier to attend to. "Lestrade's not too off, though. Sex does sell."  
"And if I were a rent boy, I'm sure I'd be interested in the advertising. As it stands, consulting detectives do not get jobs based on a scale from one to ten of shagability."

John choked slightly, covering his mouth with his hand. "Right... well, maybe I'll include a few photos with the blog updates just to give it a bit more interest all the same."

"John, you miss the point entirely." Sherlock buttoned his shirt in the doorway, fingers deft and dexterous in their task as he looped the shirt closed with each secured button. "Just don't make it the hat picture. _Anything_ but the hat picture."

John chuckled, shaking his head. Every single time. Tense, stressed and miserable never could describe either of them for long. Not together. Far too childish to pick one set of emotions and stick with them. Their relationship had attention deficit hyperactivity disorder and crime was the new shiny. John didn't mind the symptoms. After the week he'd had it felt fantastic to smile.

Sherlock's eyes seemed to say the same thing. "Text me if anything comes up. Perhaps we can meet for lunch if you're feeling better?"

John nodded, fingers drumming at the table. "Yeah, sure. Uh... good luck finding… well, finding Moran. This... we need to end this."

"I know."

His heart seized even as he tried to keep everything still and concealed, not react, not tense or breathe funny, not startle or shake. John swallowed, eyes lost in the pattern of their wallpaper. It didn't have to mean what he thought it meant. It was a simple response, a reasonable one, an expected one to something so obviously stated. 

Sherlock synched the belt around his hips and grabbed his coat, leaving without a goodbye. The silence was the rust of coffin hinges, nails through the lid, six feet of soil on top. 

His phone rang. John fumbled for it with a curse, pulling it from his pocket as he waited to hear the front door close, wincing at the unknown number before rushing to hold it to his face to answer. "Yes?"

"He knows."

John shook his head, wishing he knew how he kept such a close eye on them. "No, no, that's not what he said. That's not—I was stating the obvious and he was mocking me for it. You know Sherlock. I haven't said a damn thing. Not one goddamn thing and you know it."

"Then your deception has been a failure."

"He's Sherlock fucking Holmes!" John bit the insides of his mouth, pushing up from the table to pace to a more private corner. "I have done everything you've asked. Everything. Even if he does suspect, this is not my fault!" What kind of idiot was Moran to think anyone could keep Sherlock in the dark? 

One with too much power and not enough sense not to use it in trivial games.

The sadist on the other end of the line seemed to consider for a moment, his voice a hum. "Perhaps. But the game isn't worth playing if he knows." Moran sighed roughly. "That makes things easier I suppose. Your assignment, Captain, is not going to be an easy one. You're to assist in setting a trap for Mr. Holmes."

"No."

"You have no choice."

John growled, fist clenched. "Sherlock's looking for you! If you want him, there's no point in setting a trap! He's waiting for the chance! Fucking tell him you'll be somewhere and he'll come!"

"Oh, yes, he'll come. Armed and ready. That's not how I want him."

"If you think Sherlock with a gun is the only time you need to be afraid of him you are dumber than he thinks."

"Who said I was afraid of him?" Moran's laugh sounded much kinder than its intent. "You'll set the trap, Captain. You know what I'll do if you don't."

"You know what? Fine! Because it doesn't matter! Even if you think you've got him where you want him, Sherlock is going to come out on top! So you just tell me how you want him and I'll get you Sherlock as promised. And it is going to be the last thing you do as a free man."

"If you really believe that then why do you sound so scared?"

John swallowed, willing his hands and body not to shake. "I'm not scared," he said, forcing himself to believe it. "I am just sick and tired of your shit."

"Boom, Captain. Remember who you're speaking to. Insubordination will not be tolerated. And at this stage, it's Sherlock you'll be risking. Now, I need you to head downstairs into 221c. I've had some important tools left there for storage for just this occasion. It'll make your task much clearer once you see."

John breathed deeply, hesitating for only a moment before walking down the steps to the ground floor. He wasn't going to ask how they'd gotten into their home or why he'd left anything incriminating in the residence of the most observant man in the world. Details as such didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was sabotage. This was their first and probably only chance.

"You'll find the key above the door. Just slide your fingers over the frame and you'll find it."

John obeyed Moran as he listened to Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen, humming to the radio as music from her era drifted down the hall. He was careful not to drop the key as he worked it into the lock, his eyes darting to the right to be sure she would not see him. It was a new lock and a new key, neither expressing the groan of age as the bolt slid aside and he opened the door. He made sure to close it behind him, pocketing the key as he took the steps down into the room at the bottom.

John had never seen so many explosives. The walls were nearly bricked white in Semtex, wires running in rainbows across the walls to a single detonator ticking down the minutes to Armageddon with enough explosive power in the room to take out the block. 

On the floor there was a computer tablet, the screen filled with the sick smile of a stranger holding up his phone in his right hand, hair cut military short with a scar on his left cheek. "Thank you for playing, Captain," the man said in a voice that had become part of John's nightmares. "Today, your assignment is to be bait."


	13. Chapter 13

There were times when John had felt more afraid for his own life but few in which he feared more for Sherlock's. Sitting on the floor with not but the company of plastic explosives and a maniac on a tablet screen, there was little else to do but worry. As Moran explained, praying was very much the extent of his ability to change the course of the future. Sherlock would come to the Colonel as called and he would submit to every demand the madman made. He'd die. And once more all John could do was watch from afar, begging deities for intervention, and cursing every second that did not pass with a sudden aneurism or heart attack inspired in the man at the center of it all. 

At least he could watch. Masochistic and hateful, he could watch through the tablet screen the small office Moran sat in: large desk, wide windows, and exposed pipes down the wall with wallpaper tinted yellow from ages of tobacco smoke. It was far from an evil lair, the kitchen of 221B being more sinister in appearance than the man's work space. The t-shirt he wore, though usually an understatement of authority, stretched across the thick muscles of his chest, bulging over the definition of his biceps like a snake's shed skin barely holding on to its growing body. Where John hadn't occupied himself too much on the maintenance of a military physique, Sebastian Moran seemed to have made it a hobby. His presence was commanding and everything John remembered of the desert tents and trenches. A suit and tie would have made a joke of the man. The Colonel wouldn't have looked any less threatening were the t-shirt pink and the jeans topped in a tutu. Even miles away John could feel the force of his presence like a strong gust of wind pushing hard against his chest. It was very different from the feel of a room when James Moriarty entered it. John wasn't sure which he feared more: a man whose motivations he could never understand or those of a man close enough to himself to understand perfectly. Moran was a killer, an assassin, a soldier first and foremost. 

When two men escorted in the thin, wiry Sherlock Holmes, it took everything in John not to tremble at the course of events already playing out in his mind.

One of the men held out a pistol to Moran, handle to palm. "Found this when we searched him," he said. 

Sherlock watched them, unamused as he waited, eyes searching. Though their eyes could not meet, there was recognition in the detective's face as he looked in what John assumed to be the location of the computer screen being used to broadcast his location. Waving seemed awkward. Smiling was right out. Sherlock found the camera and held its stare as though he knew he was holding John's. He nodded slightly. John pursed his lips. Sherlock continued on scanning the room as Moran dismissed his lackeys, one of them holding on to the detective's thick, blue-grey coat as they left.

Moran waved the gun with a small smile before sliding it into a desk drawer. "You think you'd know better than to come armed."

"Habit," Sherlock said, clasping his hands behind his back. "So. Just how many hundreds of thousands of pounds of explosives have you smuggled under my flat?"

"Enough. Same rules as before, Sherlock. Six digit code, timer set to go in five hours and any attempts to disarm will cause detonation. The only alteration is the additional triggering device John activated when he entered the room. Should the door open before the code is entered, the bomb will go off." He smiled, coming to stand in front of Sherlock, meeting his height inch for inch but with the mass of two of him. "You can evacuate all of Baker Street and you will still be left with his death amongst an alarming amount of property damage."

Sherlock nodded, eyes darting again to the computer screen for a fraction of a second. "Then there's really no point in talking. What is it you want, Moran?"

John watched Moran circle his prey, the exaggerated bob of his head as he looked him over head to toe, his smile never faltering as it stretched against his scar. "First I would have you kneel at my feet and beg. You're not too proud, are you?"

There was a moment's hesitation but not more than a thought's breadth. With his eyes not wavering from Moran's, Sherlock sank graceful down to his knees, back straight and chin raised with all the compliant defiance a body could carry. The camera's angle was generous in how much of the scene was visible. John watched Sherlock's feet against the hard floor as they remained curled under, heels raised to launch himself back up in an instant if so granted or at Moran if desired.

"Not good enough," the Colonel said, tone carrying the weight of his rank. "Try harder, you dog."

Sherlock's feet untucked and John bit his lip hard as his proud friend bent forward till his palms graced the ground, face no longer staring up but looking down at the assassin's shoes. He held his back straight rather than bowed, shoulders squared over his hands as he waited. He did not fidget or make a sound. The curls of his bangs fell over his eyes without assistance.

Moran chuckled. "Lower, Mr. Holmes."

He slid one leg out behind him then the other, every movement graceful as he braced his elbows against the floor and slowly rested the whole of his body on the ground, forehead touching the space between his hands. He laid at the feet of the victor in absolute submission. 

"I said lower!" The man shouted, foot heavy against the back of Sherlock's skull while the detective's fingers curled against the floor. The shout made John jump, reminded him to breathe. In the space of their combined silence, Moran chuckled, enjoying his joke. "God, look at you. No pride at all."

"What is cherished in the mind is not always displayed in bearing. Take as much pleasure in my posture as you like—it means little to me." Sherlock's voice was only slightly strained, echoing oddly from the hollows created from his chest and chin on the floor. Only the tension in his fingers relayed his discomfort. "Does it make you feel superior to stand with your sole on my head? I've played power games with a dominatrix and games of wit against a genius so really, I'm less than impressed with your performance as a whole. I can take this suit to the cleaners but you'll still always be insignificant and worlds away from even second best."

John winced even before the kick which sent Sherlock curling on instinct, hand grasping at his abused head. Always the last word, insolent even at his most agreeable. John wished for him to stop only half as much as he cheered for him to continue. It wasn't every man who could still stand above his enemies even when prostrate at their feet. He loved the hero as much as he hated the martyr. John couldn't be prouder.

Moran, unsurprisingly, was furious. He gestured at the computer with his thick arms and sinewy hands. "You're an idiot to disrespect me when I hold all the cards! Does it take putting everything you care about in the center or a crater to make you admit defeat?"

Sherlock chuckled. In John's mind he could practically see the tension in Moran's mind, the threat of his wits snapping just to wipe the smile off Sherlock's face. The detective pushed himself up onto his knees, slowly getting himself to his feet as though waiting for the strike or push that would keep him down. Moran stayed a few paces back from him, fists clenched and face presumably full of rage though John's view omitted that detail from sight. "You're so jealous it's disgusting," Sherlock said, dusting off his chest where lint and dust clung to the black jacket.

"Jealous? Of you?"

"Of _him_." Sherlock pointed to the computer and, by extension, to John.

John had forgotten he could speak and be heard, his presence just part of the overall threat more than an interactive player in their conflict. Even so, he still felt disinclined to question either though his mind filled with confusion. It was the same as the pool, standing right there, listening to Moriarty and Sherlock practically flirting as they challenged and praised each other. There were times when you spoke and times when you waited. Something about Semtex and Sherlock made John mute even when conversation turned to himself. 

Sherlock shook his head, curls shifting against the collected dust, body moving in and out of Moran's personal space as he hovered on his toes over the point. "You think I don't know what this is about? John's been safe for years because of this misplaced kinship you've appropriated him. Two ex-soldiers working closely with geniuses who both watched their comrades kill themselves for no better reason than to spite the other. You were both there and you knew he was going through everything you were and you felt validated in his continued existence. Every day he lived and suffered that loss was a day you weren't alone. Touching how even the most singular of men search for something of themselves in others. Even Moriarty and myself were not immune. But I came back where Moriarty never will. John got everything he wanted and you... you're alone now even in your loss. Three years as brothers by your own estimation now rubbed in your face as fallacy. You are so jealous you don't even know what to do. You hate me for being alive but more than that you hate John for getting to have me back. Killing me in the warehouse wouldn't have been enough. John needed to suffer for his happiness and know a pain greater than even your own so you could be satisfied that you were the lucky one. You killed Mary to hurt him, played mind games to torment him, and you'll try to kill me now to finish it."

Moran chortled. "You think you're so clever."

"Am I wrong?"

The solider said nothing, his silence pregnant and his posture rigid and tensed. "If you think I'm only going to 'try' to kill you, you're mistaken. I will kill you today, Sherlock. And John will not only watch but be integral to the manner of your destruction."

"Oh? Am I to be horribly disfigured? Mutilated? Tortured until I'm raw from screams? I do hope along with broadcasting it to John you are recording it. Could make a small fortune with my snuff film." His face contorted with his mocking tone, no sign of fear in him and no hesitancy to continue to push. "Allow me to be of some assistance. It may be helpful to know I have very sensitive hair follicles. If you want me to beg, I suggest pulling my hair."

Moran's fist struck hard against his face. Sherlock whirled with the strength of it, falling against the desk with his cheek split open from the impact. His nose was bleeding slightly and he wiped it with his thumb, checking to see that it was in fact blood. His pale eyes blinked furiously as his pupils zoomed in and out with proverbial stars. John clenched his hands against the instinct to reach out. There was no point in it. He glared up at Moran's hulking form behind the detective and delivered his best ' _fuck you_ ' glare. 

"You think this is funny?" the Colonel asked.

"I'm not entirely sure it's not meant to be." Sherlock pushed off the desk, turning to face the other man though now only his back remained visible to John. The Captain knew his face well enough to picture every twitch and sneer to color his words with action. All the same, it was hard not to watch the nape of his neck and the line of his shoulders instead of the enraged face of their enemy. "It's like watching a child play house," the detective said. "I'm sure you take yourself very seriously but it's simply a parody. Here you are, attempting to murder the likes of me just to hurt the likes of John. Your misappropriated hate is quite laughable."

"My what?"

"John isn't your enemy. It doesn't work like that. Just because you play the same part on different sides doesn't mean he's the antithesis to your existence. Jealousy is a fine motivation but if you gave it any real thought, you'd see your true enemy has always been me. Because of the two of us, Moriarty cared for me more. I'm what he lived for and what he died for. I alone gave him what he really wanted and no grace of servitude was ever going to make him respect you above your talents. For all the fun you had at his side, causing mischief and pain, he would rather be dead just to spite me than live another day with you."

Rage. Palpable, undeniable, terrifying rage. John knew he hadn't schooled his throat well enough to close around the sound that had no definition as Moran grabbed at Sherlock, his face red and veins bulging from his forehead. Sherlock had nowhere to go. The desk removed the possibility of retreat and instead he was forced again over it, this time bent on his back with Moran on top of him, one fist closed around his throat with the other pulling his head back by the hair. Sherlock's thin legs stretched and spasmed as he clawed at the desk rather than the hand at his throat. John knew he'd said something, made some sounds or words in pure instinctual defiance of his own eye's view. He knew because Moran looked up, reminded that he was even there and pacified enough to lighten his grip and let Sherlock breathe in with a shudder.

The Colonel smirked, pulling up on his hair till Sherlock's head could bend no further and his eyes squeezed closed with a wet wince. "So then what's to stop me, huh? John, Mrs. Hudson, all of Baker Street, one giant explosion. What's to stop me blowing it all up just to make you pay?"

"Because you're a man of action, Moran. Killing them may wound me but it's killing me with your own hands that will truly satisfy you. It's pointless. Leave the games aside. Let John live so you can mock his pain once more and let this be between just you and me." Sherlock's open eyes searched him, his empty hands still refusing to aid in any struggle. "You have me now and I'm not going anywhere."

Moran laughed, letting go and stepping back far enough that Sherlock could raise himself up on his elbows, neck red with the imprint of his hand. "I suppose you expect me to give him the code so you can watch him go free?"

Sherlock shrugged, returning to his nonchalant attitude now that air was once again in his lungs. He swallowed, Adam's apple dipping against the red. "You'll have plenty of time to do that once we're done, at which point whether you do or don't is entirely up to you. You can't betray something that doesn't exist anymore so go ahead and blow John and everything else up once I'm gone. I can honestly say I won't lose any sleep over it." 

His attempt at humor was far from appreciated. John thought he had known what Sherlock was up to but was finding himself more and more at a loss. They needed the code. Surely Sherlock would play along until he reasoned it out of the assassin, but allowing himself to be tossed around and outright telling the Colonel to kill him without the code being shared was lunacy. It was assisted suicide. It served no purpose and no one. Whatever motivations fueled him or thoughts that served, Sherlock was beyond John's reasoning. To his credit, probably beyond Moran's as well. Whatever he was doing was either brilliant or the new reigning champion of stupid. As much as he believed in the former, the blood on the detective's face and the wounded rust of his voice made John's mind and heart stutter.

"You're making this far too easy."

"Sorry. I'd rather not die complacent but you have sort of set that as the tone." Sherlock shrugged, far too playful for a man with his head on the chopping block. He arched his brow, head cocked slightly with intrigue. "Would you like me to fight back? A real struggle to the death? A military man like yourself must appreciate a sense of conquest and accomplishment. Honestly, had you killed me in my sleep you'd have succeeded in more than having me kneel before you now and just take a bullet."

Moran leaned down towards his face, the veins in his neck expressing every beat of his pulse. His fury was dying, though; his interest far outweighing the rage. "A struggle gives you a chance to win," he pointed out.

Sherlock's smile was positively seductive, that little light behind his eyes flashing in tandem with his grin. "I know. Isn't it _exciting_? But in this case, you will have to tell John the code first. I can't fight for my life knowing victory would mean bye-bye Baker Street with the code lost forever."

There it was. John held his breath against the sharp inhale of comprehension. The passivity, the docile physical presence in contrast to the power of his presence and mind. He'd been teasing him. Sherlock was leading Moran on, playing hard to get, dangling just within his sight the promise of a victory he could be proud of, playing into his soldier sensibilities. He'd read the Colonel down to the last detail and laid out step by step the path to this junction. Moran could kill Sherlock or he could battle him to the death. No one was stupid enough not to know exactly what Sherlock was doing—had already done—but the want of the offer was greater than the knowledge of it.

Moran studied Sherlock for only a minute, eyes grazing over the length of him once more, no longer spying his weaknesses but assuming his strengths and the possibilities of the fight if he chose to accept. With a smile he leaned forward, nodding towards the computer screen. "4a696d," he said.

John felt a tremor down his spine of mixed relief as he carried the tablet towards the detonator, not willing to let the tense standoff out of his sight. He tore his eyes away only to carefully type in the sequence of numbers and letters, repeating each one out loud to himself as he dialed them in. He'd never been much of a gadget man. The numbers counting down were still hours from zero but still they froze, lights going dim, the threat neutralized as the metal box accepted the code. 

"Go ahead and call the police, Dr. Watson," Moran offered, standing back as Sherlock slid down off the desk once more. "You and I will have a good chat later."

"So, how do you want to die, Colonel?" Sherlock asked.

The man laughed, "It's more a question of how do I want to kill you." He walked up close, hands reaching slowly for Sherlock's neck again, no pressure given but the space of both his hands stretching the detective's neck. Moran's smile grew. "Yeah. Like this. I want to see your face as you struggle to breathe. I want to hear you gasping and choking."

Sherlock pressed his fingers to the other's wrists, pulling the hands away. "Hand to hand combat is fine with me," he said. He took a step back, unbuttoning his jacket before shrugging it off to throw aside. 

John glanced between the screen and the door, holding the tablet as he tested the door's handle with sick apprehension. It turned with ease and the door swung open. No explosion. No double-cross. John didn't mind them not living up to their end of the bargain, however, as he pushed out with his shoulder, one hand fumbling with his phone while he kept the tablet held high. "Sherlock, look, everything's fine. I'm calling Lestrade, they'll deal with the explosives. Fuck the fight and get out of there."

"Still watching, Captain? Good. I want you to watch."

John sneered at the man as he caught Sherlock rolling up his shirt sleeves, undeterred.

"Sherlock."

In comparison to Moran, his arms were thin and pale, his large hands the most intimidating proportion past his elbow but packing a less than exemplary punch. John'd had the pleasure of those knuckles against his face. It'd hurt but he'd only stumbled from it. They were a far cry from the bulk of muscle that ran from Moran's shoulders to his nails.

" _Sherlock_!"

"John, the bombs may not be armed but you are still standing at ground zero. I would advise that you take Mrs. Hudson and relocate." He did not look at the screen as he spoke, attention drawn to the roll of his cuffs.

John grabbed the stair railing, his heart beating much faster than it had in the presence of hundreds of pounds of plastic explosives. "Sherlock, _don'_ t." He wasn't sure what he expected Sherlock to do in a building located god knew where, untold miles away, with unknown numbers of syndicate men waiting in the halls. He wasn't impressed with the detective's performance anymore. People were safe, himself included, but the price was not a bluff. Whether by pride or a lack of options, Sherlock looked to have every intention of fighting the muscle bound military man to the death. 

Sherlock still did not look at the screen, hands fumbling at his sides. "John—"

"I love you."

Moran's chuckle was short but loud, his face a maze of laugh lines all pulling towards his eyes. " _Fucking shit_. You are kidding me, right?"

"Shut the _fuck_ up, no one is talking to you!" John was shouting. Mrs. Hudson came calling from behind him with concern as she walked out to see the matter. He ignored her and Moran the same. "Sherlock, I love you, please..." He didn't know how the sentence ended. Please don't fight him? Please don't die? Please don't fight another enemy alone when he lived every day to fight beside him?

"...Just because you say that, doesn't mean you automatically get what you want."

" _Don't_! Don't you fucking dare!"

Sherlock nodded to Moran, fists up in a boxing stance. The amusement the Colonel took from John's distress never left his face as he charged at Sherlock, taking him down quickly, the two of them falling behind the camera's range so only the sound of their struggle could be heard. 

John wasn't capable of coherent thought. He shouted at Mrs. Hudson to shut up so he could listen, barking orders in automatic response for her to call the police, leave him alone, do as he said, get out of the house, just go and for god's sake _shut up_! He held the tablet to his head, listening as hard as he could, hearing gasps over struggles and straining to try and see past the camera's edge.

It was very quiet. Then—

"Idiot." 

John nearly dropped the tablet as he watched Sherlock pull himself off the ground using the desk, bruised but apparently the victor. "...Sh—.. What did you...?"

Sherlock waved his hand at the camera, a small syringe tucked against his palm, only a few inches long, plunger secure against and easily depressed by the pad of his thumb with the needle held between his fingers. "Drugged, not poisoned. He's going on trial for the murder of Mary Morstan." He smiled to himself, looking down at the body still out of shot. He turned to John, rumpled and triumphant. "How are you feeling about lunch now?"

Through the front door of 221B came men in suits, none of them bothering to knock. John only had a moment to feel alarmed before badges were waved, government seals made visible as less fashionably dressed men in jumpsuits pressed down the hall towards the door to the subterranean flat. A suited man took hold of Mrs. Hudson's elbow, leading her out towards the street and a line of black cars and armored vans.

"Dr. Watson, we need you to vacate these premises while our team removes the explosives."

John nodded vaguely, something in the man's voice giving him pause as he looked up from the tablet he nearly held hugged in his arms. Were the tablet not held close, he'd have dropped it. "You—." The suited man smirked only slightly, his bruised face one that John felt sure he would never forget. "Ashwin Preeti?"

" _Agent_ Preeti, sir." The Indian man replied. "Please step out of the house. Mr. Holmes has arranged a rendezvous location for you and the younger Mr. Holmes. We're to deliver you there personally."

John's knees felt weak as he leaned against the stairwell, eyes looking down to see Sherlock pulling his jacket back on while the door to the office was held open not by thugs but more well-dressed men. 

He had no idea what was going on. Somehow, for now, he was okay with that. Whatever it was, it was all fine.


	14. Chapter 14

Mycroft's home did not have the best of memories for John. It was a place of unpleasant revelations and reminded him of bad days gone worse. Though his current opinions of the day were high, he did not look forward to whatever confessions might be uttered in the elegant abode. A fine ending did not make for a perfect excuse for acceptable means. Refinement and high position made John think of words like ‘ _Coventry_ ’ and as John caught sight of Sherlock, standing in the parlor, dabbing at his face with a bulky white cloth, the reasons why were quite inelegantly clear. 

Sherlock turned to him as he heard his heavy-footed entrance, smiling only slightly as he kept the cloth-concealed ice against his cheek. His bottom lip was split, but the least of which needed attending to with angry splotches of purples and reds spreading on his neck. "To be fair, this was not what I had in mind when I inquired about lunch. I'm hoping to make this a short interlude."

John ignored his jest as he took hold of his hand, tugging to unveil the discolorations that had had time to rise against his face. He looked quite roughed and tangled though in his experience, John had seen much worse. "Jesus, Sherlock," he sighed all the same, giving the whole of his face a quick inspection with fingertips tracing and prodding as gently as possible. "A doctor seen these?"

"He has now." Sherlock pressed his hands away, leaning back far enough to hold the ice back against the required areas which served him far better than concern. "I'm fine," he said. "Promise. You?"

John balled his hands into nervous fists, fingers fidgeting against his palms. "Me? Yeah. Fine." He looked around, noting the standard seating area, the cream upholstered loveseats and high-backed, claw-footed chairs. Their host was not present, a fact John was both grateful for and annoyed with. He wanted it all over with. He'd waited long enough for answers already. "How long had you known?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, left brow arching. "About Moran? Not as long as Mycroft knew, if it's any consolation. He told me when he realized I'd work it out and how much trouble that'd make. You were right: you're not very good at deceiving me." 

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sick of you being so damn good at it. _Fuck_ , Sherlock, I thought... I planned your _murder_ for Christ's sake. Do you have any idea... And then you today with Moran? You brilliant bastard, I thought... _Fuck_! You know _exactly_ what I thought! _Jesus_!" John could not keep his hands from searching once more against Sherlock's neck, wanting to inspect each splotch that marred his throat. 

Sherlock stood still for him, accepting the attention though he made no effort to raise his chin in assistance. "We're both alright now, John."

"I know; I know. Just... _fuck_." There were not enough words in the English language to vocalize the sheer amounts of panic and relief he'd felt in the span of less than an hour. 

As he traced a particularly angry looking bruise—a thumb's by the span of it—he heard the door to the room open and similarly close as their host joined them. John felt no need to greet him as such, content to seeing to the health of his friend first and allow the pompous official to wait. He considered he probably owed him more than a small amount of gratitude but being angry with him and blaming him for the things that went wrong was as comfortable as shouting unwarranted abuse at Anderson was for Sherlock. There was a natural order to things. There was complicated history.

Mycroft sat in a chair that by all accounts appeared to be his normal seat in the room. The side and coffee tables were at a perfect distance from it and the space between them and the chair allowed for the perfect storage of his briefcase which he slid on the floor beside him, handle up. He waited without hurry, not bothering to even watch them it seemed as John finished his compulsory examination. The way he commanded their attention without speaking a word annoyed John almost as much as the silence he'd granted him through the entire ordeal.

John looked at him, expecting to see perhaps a small hint of remorse at seeing his brother wounded, even if superficially so. Mycroft was a paradigm of composure, the British gentleman to his core. John was not good at hiding his repulsion. "You're quite the spectator, aren't you?" he spat, turning away from Sherlock to stand with his arms at his sides, glaring down at the seated giant. "You watched me struggle to keep Moran happy then delivered your own brother to him? This is becoming a sick trend, Mycroft!"

"John." Sherlock shook his head, gesturing for him to take a seat as Sherlock himself moved to the furthest end of the parallel sofa, forcing John to sit closest to his brother with straight-backed agitation. 

Mycroft breathed through his nose, looking far more annoyed than John felt he had the right to be. "It was necessary. We knew Moran was planning something but our intelligence offices were coming up with little. It wasn't until Moran made contact with you that we discovered his plans at all. We were tapping your lines, obviously. It was how we knew about the mugging task and were able to prepare one of our own agents. If Moran had been present, things would have been much simpler but allowing you to gain his trust was just as necessary to collecting more information. For every crime you imagine yourself to have had a hand in, we were able to learn more about the current structure of Moran's syndicate and infiltrate it. The men you saw escorting Sherlock to Moran were our men, not his. I assure you, I sent my brother in with every available resource at his disposal should his plan have failed." His pointed scowl in Sherlock's direction was filled with displeasure

Sherlock did not so much as fidget under his stare. "Which it didn't," he assured them.

"I don't remember asphyxiation being included in the preliminary plans."

"Plans change."

"So it seems." 

John looked between the two in their short discord, watching Sherlock grimace and pout while Mycroft simply sank into his chair in mild defeat. Not so heartless after all, it seemed.

He leaned forward, elbows on knees as he engaged the official, his anger diminishing under the weight of the revelations. "Did you know about the explosives in 221c?" he asked.

"We did." Mycroft ran his fingers along the fine details of the chair wings, idly ignoring his audience as he spoke. "This was before the code for the Oxford Circus line was deciphered, of course. At the time, we could not risk interfering with Moran's as-of-yet fully explained plan."

John nodded. "What about the cameras or microphones or whatever Moran planted in our apartment?"

"Nothing was planted there. Moran was really quite clever in some ways." Mycroft's face seemed to pinch just slightly at the admission, no love lost on the man now held quite securely captive. He breathed deeply, as though the whole ordeal were now quite superfluous to deal with. "You may not remember the scare a while back on Bluetooth-enabled phones. Seems someone found out how to turn them on and use them to listen in on people remotely. The scare is generally forgotten, most of the rumors of the plausibility being dismissed as technology advances. Hackers become more advanced as well, though, I'm afraid. Moran could turn your phone on and listen in to any conversation you had without you knowing, the beauty of it being that as you grew to fear him more, you kept the phone even closer at hand."

"So by listening in he could tell when I was alone or away from Sherlock."

Mycroft nodded. "Simplicity is at times its own brilliance." 

John blinked, waiting for something more to follow than just the simple explanation. With nothing offered, he prompted for more. "So... what now?"

"Now Moran will stand trial and he will be found guilty of the bombings and the murder of Mary Morstan. Not only will Sherlock's name be cleared but the good press on solving the bomber case should bring you in some clientele. The last of the scars left by Moriarty's deception will fade and as far as anyone is concerned, life will go back to normal."

No, not normal. Normal was something far less pleasant for John Watson. With Moran in prison and Sherlock's name cleared, things would return to what they were three years earlier. Things would go back to being unspokenly perfect.

"Is that good enough for you, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft asked, fingers trilling against the armrest of his chair. "I'd hate to fall short of your demands."

"No… I... Thank you. _Thank you_. I… it's... it's really over. All of it. Every… last bit."

 

Like the Nothing never was. Like there had never been a James Moriarty or a Richard Brook.

Mycroft smiled, his dark eyes darkening. "Not quite," he said, turning to his brother. "Sherlock, if you'd be so kind as to leave the good doctor and myself alone for a moment. We have some matters to discuss."

Sherlock's face turned somewhat sour. "What matters?"

"Private matters."

"Private from me?"

"That would be the general idea." Mycroft sighed, long suffering. "Perhaps the lack of oxygen to your brain has caused it to slow down momentarily."

Sherlock was not amused. He stood up, ice still clutched to his cheek as the white cloth grew dark with the damp. He looked down at his friend, gesturing with his chin. "Don't kill him, John. Life would be far too boring without at least one enemy." He stepped aside, knocking against the coffee table with his shin to upset a neat stack of journals as he walked. "Is Carolyn in?" he asked, pausing at the door with his free hand to the handle.

" _Cathrine_ and no. You'll have to find less destructive ways to entertain yourself in the interim. Might I suggest testing to see how long you can sit still and be quiet?"

"Two days, fourteen hours, twelve minutes, thirty-seven seconds." Sherlock rattled off, managing to sound bored even as his eyes sparkled with the tiniest bit of pride. He pulled the door closed behind him with a careful click as he left the two men alone.

John pursed his lips, trying not to smile. "Certainly wasn't while he was with me," he said.

"Myself either." Mycroft pulled out his briefcase, setting the dark, leather rectangle on a side table where he opened it just enough to remove from it his intended purchase: a folded piece of white-grey newsprint. John recognized it as The Sun, his eyes immediately drawn to the front cover photograph of the events at the Royal Albert Hall. Mycroft held it out to him. "You know what this is?"

John accepted it, shaking the folds out as he set the front page open against his lap. Twenty-one dead, fifty-odd injured. John didn't remember seeing so many ambulances and police cars there at the time. He hadn't been paying much attention in all honesty. He sighed quietly, nibbling at the inside of his cheeks. "Yeah. I read it. Doesn't sound like there was much we could have done, I guess."

Mycroft nodded. "Quite right. I'm most interested in the headline."

"Terrorists Strike Royal Albert Hall? What about it?"

"It's not about what it _does_ say. Do you know what it _doesn't_ say?" The older gentleman smiled thinly, his face doing little to hide the contempt riding on his words. "I'll help you. It doesn't say ' _Consulting Detective Stood Up by Long Time Friend and Partner_ '." From the briefcase came another item, smaller and glossy: a set of photographs of a well-dressed man in an otherwise empty balcony among red pulled curtains. 

John clenched his jaw, molars sliding against each other in a painful grind as his thumb imprinted on the photo's surface. 

Mycroft's false smile faded, barely a pause given. "And do you know why it doesn't say that?" he asked. "Because while your lives are so very interesting to you and Sherlock, the rest of the world honestly doesn't give a damn. However, to be clear, if I ever see my brother looking as such again and it is not for your funeral, it soon will be."

"Mycroft-"

"Hold on. Let me tell you what I want to hear first before you say anything further." Mycroft's face once again pulled into a tight smirk, his words carefully chosen and eerily familiar as John sat straight, a slight shiver running down his spine. The official leaned forward, fingers steepled below his chin with his small triumph. "I want to hear that you're going to think about him first and public reaction last, if at all. I want to hear that you are going to remember he is unique and requiring of perhaps quite a bit more patience than you are used to in this regard. I want to hear that you are not going to let this be a mistake now that you are both committed to this. That's what I want; that's what he really needs from you right now. How much of that can I expect to actually happen?"

John half wanted to punch the man for throwing that back in his face. Instead he swallowed hard, stumbling for purchase in a conversation he'd thought he'd been prepared for. " _Committed_?" he repeated, brows flying high against his wrinkled forehead. "Hang on, he and I—" His mind slowed to a steady stop, his compulsion to correct having waned to no more than a defeated, internal shrug. Committed. Yeah, probably. Why not? John's lips curled into a half-smirk, his mind wondering just what had been so hard about that while his heart seemed to sigh with exasperation. Committed. Committed suited him just fine. "Look, we don't need the protective older brother talk. We're sorted, thanks. Sherlock and I, we can handle our own affairs."

Mycroft nodded, slowly sitting back in his chair. "I'm glad my brother's better half is still the reasonable man I thought he was."

"Yeah, well... you don't have to be so smug about it." John stood, feeling tired and hungry and in need of a lifetime's rest and relaxation as three years of stress ceased their slow, glacial melt and flowed through instead like rivers. "Thanks and all, Mycroft, but my date's waiting. We'll see you around."

The official nodded, smug just about covering the knowing smile he wore with practiced perfection. "Goodbye, John."

John waved a hand in a mute gesture as he walked to the parlor doors and out into the hall. Sherlock stood leaning against the wall, poking at his sore flesh like a bored child. He stopped as soon as he saw John, standing up straight and replacing the ice to his face as though he'd kept it there the whole time. He nodded towards the door with his chin as he pushed off to join him.

"I will kill you if you hurt my baby brother?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Did you tell him to piss off?"

"I should have. Think you could wait five more minutes while I pop back in?"

Sherlock shook his head, starting off down the hall towards the front door at a leisurely pace. "Don't bother. It won't be near as effective now you've had time to think about it." He reached the front door first and held it open. "Italian?" he asked.

John nodded, his stomach growling in protest to the wait. "God, I could murder a spaghetti. Angelo's?"

"Bit of a ride from here. Could find someplace closer."

"We could, yeah." John walked out to the curb, hanging back for Sherlock before leaning out to hail their cab. "Angelo's is a good place for a first date, though," he said, trying not to call too much attention to his choice of words.

Sherlock smiled, hands clasped behind his back as he rocked on his heels, leaning down just the slightest bit closer to John's level. "It was, wasn't it?"


End file.
